Strong At The Broken Places
by strongatthebrokenplaces
Summary: Kurt and Blaine thought that they were lucky. Amidst dealing with self harm and depression, they were able to find in each other what they couldn't find in themselves. Together, their scars slowly & achingly began to heal. But what happens when one of them leaves – with no note, no trail to follow, no goodbye? What happens when two people who were supposed to end up together don't?
1. Introduction

**A/N: This is a new story I'm hoping to add to the Klaine repertoire! I know it's a little late but I have faith that y'all can stick around for the long haul on this one, because I think it's pretty special. I promise this will be the longest author's note I ever write, forgive me. Basically, this is a story I started nearly three years ago (yes, three), and it's the thing I hold nearest and dearest to my heart. It's like my child and it's what I've essentially come to know as my entire life now, so to be sitting here and finally posting it is absolutely mind blowing.**

**This is almost an entirely AU story, with a side of Anderbros and Klaineberry. It's set up a little differently than most stories because there's lots and lots of music and poetry, so hopefully that's something people take kindly too!**  
**Thank you to anyone who supported me along this crazy journey, you guys know who you are, but especially to Trish who's listened to me ramble about this story for the last three years! And most importantly, thank you to my incredible editor Linae who's been with me for about two years now. Without her, this story would be nothing and I owe her a debt of gratitude.**

**This story is almost finished and will be posted every Friday from here on out! Please comment and review! Feel free to message me on my personal tumblr (elissaslaterisaqueen) and my story tumblr (strong-at-the-broken-places).**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: none.**

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**_Dedications_**

_To Blaine – Thank you for never giving up on me. You saved my life._

_To Kurt – I love you. Always will._

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"_**I've loved him my whole life, and somewhere along the way, that love didn't change but grew. It grew to fill the parts of me that I did not have when I was a child. It grew with every new longing of my body and desire until there was not a piece of me that did not love him. And when I look at him, there is no other feeling in me." **_

– _**Laura Nowlin, If He Had Been With Me**_

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_**Introduction**_

I like to think that everyone in life finds their soul mate at some point or another. I don't necessarily believe in love at first sight, but I believe that sometimes you just meet someone, and that's _it_, you know that's who you're supposed to spend the rest of your life with. You don't know why, or how, but you're drawn to them, in a way that you've never been drawn to anybody. You make choices that lead you places, and at those places is where your paths cross. Maybe it's at a coffee shop, or an apartment building, or in the middle of a street. Maybe you're five and he's your first best friend and you don't realize that he'll still _be_ your best friend when you leave for college; maybe you were twenty-seven and she's the first girl you've ever felt that way about; maybe you're forty and you realize that it's never too late to fall in love.

I found my soul mate on a staircase in the middle of Dalton Academy. I was only seventeen years old and he was my first everything.

We all want to know why we bother, why we keep searching for that one person – that one great true love – when all we do is get hurt trying to find them. And the truth is that we keep going because we know that at the end of the day we want nothing more than to wake up next to someone that's going to love and care for us unconditionally, someone that's willing to fight for us and defend us when we can't do it for ourselves. I spent my entire life looking for that, and so did he, and maybe that's why we fit so well together. When we were rejected by the world and by ourselves, unable to find happiness or love, we were able to find each other. We turned a nightmare into something beautiful, and though the road to the end was filled with little silver blades and pills and more tears than we could dry, the two of us were lucky.

I used to wonder what it _truly_ meant to love someone… and then I met him. This boy who taught me so quickly and so easily what love is like. And I knew without a doubt, like the sky is blue and the grass is green, that I loved him. To know him was to love him, but to have _him_ choose _me_? It's something that still doesn't seem quite real to me, even as I write this and stare at the smooth gold band on my finger. Our history is a long one, a painful one, and we've got too many scars to count, but we're still here and we made it.

On the nights I was up crying, screaming my voice hoarse at the unfairness of this world and at the hatred I had for myself, he was there, clutching my hands against his heart so I couldn't reach for the blade that I so badly wanted to rip across my skin. I would yell obscene, awful things at him for hours and hours and then I would collapse into his arms, tears running down my face because I just couldn't _do it_ anymore. He would take me to the bed and pull me close against him, whispering into my ear as he ran his hands over my back_. "You are beautiful, and kind, and amazing, and so, so loved,"_ he would tell me. _"So loved. And important. You are worth everything in the world and more and I love you and I will _always_ love you."_

When he walked around with a hole in his heart where his parents should have been, I was the one who sat with him and listened to him talk about the night his father almost killed him. He was disgusted with himself and what he'd turned his family into, but I would simply hold him to my chest and run my fingers through his hair, telling him that I would help him get through it. I never felt like I would be able to repay him for the things he'd done for me, but I tried to do right by him every day. I supported him and was there for him as best I could be given my own situation, and most of the time I chose to help him over helping myself. And even after I hurt him more than anyone ever had before, even after I tore us in half and scattered the pieces, even after I was more trouble than I was worth – he forgave me. Because he loved me, he said. Always would.

I remember all of it, every single little detail, just like I know every scar on my wrist and every line from _The Notebook_. Every touch, word, glance, and breathy _I love you_ as I watched him come undone beneath me is engraved into my brain – an array of perfectly preserved memories that never fade. I remember how he saved me, in any and every way that a person can possibly be saved. If I hadn't met him, I wouldn't be alive and writing this right now. It's not dramatic or extreme or untrue; it's merely a fact, and you need to know that before you read this story.

The question I get asked the most when I tell people our story is how in the hell did I know that he was going to be _it_ for me when I was so young?

Well, that's easy. I knew because he was the first person that was able to see past all of the walls I'd put up and the first person to ever ask me if I was okay. I knew because my heart skipped a beat when he looked at me on that staircase and he took my breath away when he grabbed my hand. I knew because he became my best friend so quickly and so easily and we fell in love with each other as friends before anything else. And when we fell for real, my world finally slowed down and his was the first face I saw when my head stopped spinning. I knew because he loved me more than I ever asked him to, sometimes more than I deserved, and he continued to love me even when I didn't love myself. I knew because we opened up to each other in ways that we'd never known were possible and because we stayed with each other in spite of all of our problems.I knew because we beat our scars, together. And most of all? I knew because of how it felt when I left.

I walked away from us once, from the life we were supposed to have and from the promises we'd made. Why? I'm still not completely sure, even to this day. I had reasons that made sense to me at the time, I guess. I never meant to hurt him. Looking back on it, it was the stupidest thing I've ever done, and it killed us. We lived lives of red and hated the people that tried to save us when we just didn't want to be saved, dreaming of suicide and a way to end it all. He spent years in therapy and popped pills and cried out at night for me when he couldn't sleep; I made friends with the demons under my skin and the knives in my kitchen drawers. We found that we both had much, much more to worry about than not having each other, discovering our true selves and the issues neither of us knew we had along the way.

And it was because I was vulnerable that I met a monster disguised as an angel with two green eyes and lips that burned my skin instead of healing it. And then somewhere along the way, in a relationship with a man that did nothing but hurt me, I had gotten lost in what I thought was love.

Whether it's a romance or a friendship, love falls into two categories: the kind that helps you grow, and the kind that destroys you. And whether I was fortunate to have learned the difference or just unlucky to have become a victim, I experienced both. Most of the time, you don't even know what constitutes as acceptable anymore because that fine line is so constantly blurred on a daily basis. Everything gets mixed up in your head and suddenly you aren't able to decipher love from abuse; it's impossible to separate the two when they've gone hand in hand for years and you haven't noticed.

Simply put, this is a story about love. It's one of bravery and the simple acts of courage that it takes to wake up every day and keep moving forward. It's one of loss, catastrophic loss, and how little it takes to lose yourself when you get caught up in the grief and heartache. It's one of the hatred a person can have against themselves and all of the reasons why that happens. It's one of how one person changes 's one of family, friends, and realizing that you don't have to be related by blood to _be_ family. It's one of abuse and cruelty and pure, unimaginable wickedness – everything that love is _not_. Through the journal entries andsongs and poems we've written, we'll take you through the lives we lived together and apart and everything that happened in between.

I believe there are many ways an author can tell his story. This is how we want to tell ours.

– _K. H._


	2. Prologue

**A/N: This story is almost finished and will be posted every Friday from here on out! Please comment and review! Feel free to message me on my personal tumblr and my story tumblr.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: none.**

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**Prologue**

I flicked my eyes open to complete darkness, instinctively reaching my hands out to pat the vacant spaces next to me. Kurt wasn't there.

_ Where is he?_ I thought to myself, beginning to panic. Automatically, I assumed the worst. I felt around again, quicker and more desperate even though I knew he wouldn't be there. I threw the covers back, scanning the room for any signs that he was in there with me. I listened but heard nothing – no soft cries, no sharp inhales of breaththat I often heard at three am on most nights. I looked around but the bedroom door was closed and the bathroom light wasn't on; everything looked in pristine condition, untouched, still. My heart began to pound as I slipped out of my bed and ran through my apartment, searching for the small, thin boy that had, not even two hours ago, quietly and nervously asked if he could sleep with me that night.

After the first month he'd been with us, we'd slept apart even though I was the only person he would let within three feet of him. I understood, and each time he woke with nightmares, sobbing and choking and screaming until he couldn't breathe, I went into his room and held him, waiting for him to fall into his dreamless sleep. Because that's how it worked: he had nightmares, and then there was nothing. He was so physically and mentally exhausted that his eyelids would eventually shut of their own accord, even though he fought it, even though he was scared, even though he did this every night like clockwork. Or, I wouldn't get to hold him because sometimes it was so bad that even I couldn't get through to him. Sometimes he lashed out in anger, shoving himself out of my grasp, a deafening noise spilling from between his lips. Sometimes he wrapped his arms around his legs, whimpering in a numb almost-silence, flinching when I tried to comfort him. It was then that I knew what his nightmares were about.

And when the second month came, he asked, in a small, choked voice, if it would be okay for me to stay with him. It was the middle of the night and he was shaking and his cheeks were tear stained, and I told him yes, of course, and we went to sleep together. He slept with ten inches of space between us, clinging to his side of the bed, and I let him because I knew why he did it. But then the nightmares came like they always did, so I pulled him close to me, put my arms around his trembling body, and he fell asleep still clutching my chest. From then on, he slept in my room. He said that things weren't as bad with me there, but he always asked if it was okay that I stayed with him.

I was used to being next to him by this hour, whether I went into his room or whether he was in mine, so it was unsettling that I hadn't heard any screaming or crying. Most people would be happy about that fact, because hey, that probably means they're okay. But I knew last time I woke up to silence and an empty, dark room _after_ going to bed with Kurt was nearly seven years ago, when I'd discovered that he'd left.

I was about to wake Rachel up when I saw him standing on the balcony with a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. I sighed in relief and headed outside. I closed the sliding glass door behind me and walked over to him, resting my arms on the rail by his. Henley said I should never push him to talk when he wasn't ready, so I waited patiently.

I stared out into the city, at all the buildings and the lights and the tiny, tiny people on the sidewalks. By New York's standards, it was eerily quiet. I heard the sound of wind blowing and of sirens wailing down the streets and of cars in the distance, but it was all too far away, like I was hearing the noise through someone else's ears. Next to me, I heard Kurt's even breathing, sometimes interrupted by a sniffle. Minutes passed and he didn't say a word, didn't even acknowledge my presence, so I prodded him gently.

"A penny for your thoughts?" I asked.

He looked to me, eyes red and cheeks streaked with tears, his voice thick and broken when he finally found it.

"It's not a sin to love somebody, is it?"

I heard those words leave his mouth and I felt hot anger rush through my veins. I wanted to find the monster that did this to him and beat him with the weight of Kurt's pain – all the lies and the memories and the blood that's seeped out of him and dripped onto the tile of any bathroom floor that he's ever been in. I wanted to drench him in it, to drown his lungs with the tears that Kurt cried each morning and each night. I wanted him to feel the agony that Kurt felt, to suffer the way that Kurt did. I wanted to take away the things he'd taken from Kurt, choices and free will and the option to say no. I wanted him to know exactly what that felt like, because _he_ did this to Kurt. He was _still_ doing this to Kurt, even though he was about to be locked away. I knew that even then, he had him in his fingertips, attached by the string of distorted reality that he'd burned into Kurt's mind.

And I absolutely loathed him for it.

But I knew I had to stay calm and focus on Kurt. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and set aside my anger. I settled on trying to distract him from the devil dancing inside his head.

"I thought you weren't religious."

He turned away from me, gripping the blanket around his shoulders, and gazed straight ahead. He sniffled. "I'm not. But there has to be a reason."

"A reason for what?" I asked softly.

"For it to hurt so much," he said, and then he was crying, tears streaming down his face as he shook his head at the ground. "Am I being punished? Did I – I don't know why he would – he said h-he loved me."

I gathered him in my arms without hesitation and he immediately buried himself in my chest, shoulders shaking with the sobs coming from his mouth. My hands rested on his neck and the back of his head, holding him close. I didn't know what to say, but I murmured into his ear, doing my best to hold the pieces of him together with my words.

_ I think I could be falling in love you_, I wanted to say. _I can't stand seeing you like this. He's not worth it. Don't allow him do this to you. Please just let him go_.

Instead, I rocked him slowly, carding my fingers through his hair as I blinked away the wetness forming in the corners of my own eyes.

"I still love him," he cried, and he started to choke on the air that he was forcing into his lungs by his rapid breathing.

"Shh," I whispered, pulling him tighter against me. "Calm down. It's okay." _No, you don't. You think you do but you don't because you've been manipulated and forced into thinking that how he treats you passes for love._

Over Kurt's head, I saw Rachel appear in front of the glass door. She looked at me and I gave her an imperceptible head shake that told her not to come outside. She nodded in understanding and walked away, wringing her hands. She knew not to be around when Kurt had an episode, because, for reasons I still don't quite understand, it always made it worse. I was the only person who could calm him down and none of us knew why. His father, Carole, Rachel – all of them sent him into hysterics, especially if he was already crying.

Eventually, his sobs turned into whimpers which subsided and became hiccups. I was still running my fingers up and down his back when he picked his head up, looking exhausted.

"Why do we choose people that do nothing but hurt us?" he asked tiredly. "Why did I stay with him?" His eyes were puffy and red rimmed and he looked so sad that it took everything in me to not break down right there in front of him. I breathed deeply, running my hand over his forehead and through his hair.

"I don't know," I replied honestly as my thumb swept over his cheek. "We accept the love we think we deserve, I guess."

He stared back at me mutely, lifeless and worn out from crying.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he said after a long pause.

"Don't be," I told him, capturing his fingers and covering them with mine. "I want to be here for you."

He didn't say anything, just laid his head back on my chest and wrapped his arms around me. We stayed like that for a few more minutes, listening to the city in silence, before I spoke again.

"Wanna go back to bed?"

He nodded, so I led him inside towards my (was it ours now?) bedroom. I opened the door, but didn't bother to turn on the lights as I steered him towards the bed, careful not to trip over his blanket. He dropped it, climbing onto the mattress, and I followed suit. He was facing me when his brow furrowed, like he was thinking too hard. I brushed a stray piece of hair out of his face and asked him what was wrong.

"Can you – can you hold me?" His eyes glanced nervously to mine, voice low and unsure. "It's just, he never did, and it usually, it helps with my… nightmares." He sucked in a breath, looking away.

"Of course. Come 'ere." I opened my arms and he flipped over, glimpsing at me one more time to make sure that it was okay. I nodded and he scooted back, relaxing against me. I pulled the comforter over both of us and then tangled our fingers together on his stomach.

"I'm scared," he admitted quietly.

"It's okay," I murmured, squeezing his hands. "Just try to get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."


	3. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story is almost finished and will be posted every Friday from here on out! I'm sorry I wasn't able to get it up last night, but I got home around midnight and wasn't feeling well, so i figured it was best to wait until today. Please comment and review - it makes me so happy to know that people like and take the time to read this story! Feel free to message me on my personal tumblr (elissaslaterisaqueen) and my story tumblr (strong-at-the-broken-places-fic). This work is also on AO3!**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: mentions of suicide and depression.**

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**Chapter 1 – This Feels Like Home**

_(Kurt &amp; Blaine, August 2010 – March 2011)_

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"_**When sadness was the sea, you were the one that taught me to swim." – **_**Iain S. Thomas, I Wrote This For You**

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**August, 2010 - Blaine**

"Excuse me? Um, hi, can I ask you a question? I'm – I'm new here."

When I turned around, intent on mumbling a quiet response about how I was supposed to be somewhere (because I had never been one for social interaction), I stopped mid-step, closing my mouth.

The first thing I noticed about the boy was his eyes, such a beautiful shade of clear blue with dashes of green. They were captivating – dazzling, really – but there was something… missing. They weren't bright like you would expect, or sparkling with a profound enthusiasm for the world around him. Wasn't that how these things worked? You accidentally bumped into someone on the street – or, for the sake of this situation, on a staircase – and you met a person, someone the complete opposite of you, that made you realize everything you were missing out on by being a shy, introverted, lonely person content on floating through his years unnoticed.

But it took me less than three seconds to realize that this wasn't one of those overly-dramatic and unrealistic movie scenes. Which led me to the second thing I noticed about him: the fact that he seemed _lost_. Not just physically, actually confused about where he was going, but detached. There was a disconnection, it seemed, from this boy and the life he was living.

"My name's Blaine," I said, putting my hand out before I even knew what I was doing. He flinched slightly, sucking in a quiet breath that wasn't meant for me to hear, and hesitantly slipped his own hand into mine.

"Kurt," he piped quietly, slightly distracted by the commotion going on around us. He waited a moment before asking, "So what exactly is going on here?" His eyes darted around to the people rushing down the stairs in groups, all seemingly in a hurry to get to the same place.

"The Warblers," I told him immediately, shocked that I had responded. "Every now and then, they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons. Tends to shut the school down for a while."

"Wait, so the Glee club here is kind of cool?"

"The Warblers are like rock stars." The boy, Kurt, raised his eyebrows. "Come on, I know a shortcut." I gripped his fingers again, but if you'd asked me why I did it, I wouldn't have been able to tell you. Why was I comfortable around him when we had just met? Why did he cause all of my personal and social boundaries to fall to the ground? Why did I feel the need to take him with me and protect him, to sit with him and ask him, _Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?_ Again, I didn't know.

He stared down, mouth falling open when I closed my grasp around his. I ignored it, tucking his stunned expression of surprise away for later, and led him down an empty corridor.

"I stick out like a sore thumb," Kurt said when we stopped at the doors to another room. I let go of his hand and watch as he glance around at the dozens of blazer-clad boys filling the small space.

"Just don't forget your jacket next time," I murmured, giving him a sympathetic look. "You'll be alright."

* * *

The very first time I saw Kurt smile was when the Warblers were singing _Teenage Dream_ by Katy Perry. I was sitting in the back, mouthing along with the words, and his gaze wandered over to mine shyly. I got a burst of courage and held his stare as I sang along with the line, "_I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece/I'm complete._" His eyes had lit up, the aqua-colored flecks finally, finally sparkling like they were supposed to. His face crinkled as his lips curved upwards into one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, but then he looked back down timidly. He let out a sigh and softly shook his head.

Somehow, I knew that Kurt hadn't smiled in a long, long time; the faces of shock and disbelief he made whenever I touched him were not lost on me. It wasn't hard to fill in the blanks when I had gone through the exact same thing. Kurt was sad, I realized. Lonely – an introvert, maybe, like me – and he had probably been hurt by the world in so many ways that it just became easier for him to shut down.

I wanted to see him smile again.

* * *

Afterwards, when the performance was over, we found ourselves sitting in the common room with two of my fellow students, Wes and David.

"It's very civilized of you to invite me out for coffee before you beat me up for spying," Kurt said, with a hint of spite. There was a sarcasm in his words that he'd likely used as a shield, and I knew that there was a thick brick wall built around him a mile high. He was nervous, scared, and I detected it instantly. It's one of the reasons that led me to believe that Kurt wasn't an _actual_ student at my school. I'd never seen someone so utterly and completely _lost_ before, not at Dalton. Not since myself. People here were very confident and self-assured, and they conveyed it through the way they walked and carried themselves. They were bold and secure in who they were, sometimes so much so that they could be a bit presumptuous or down-right cocky. And then there was me. I was shy and quiet, preferring to keep to myself for fear of history repeating. Things had happened to me at my old school that I didn't want happening here, so I'd opted to stay out of everybody's way.

"We are not going to beat you up," Wes cut in immediately, before I got a chance to say anything.

"You were such a terrible spy we thought it was sort of… endearing," David explained.

"Which made me think spying on us isn't really the reason you came." My words were quiet as I set my coffee down and looked at Kurt, who tried to smile. It faltered for a moment and he cast his eyes down before he glanced to me.

"Can I ask you guys a question?" When we didn't object, he continued very hesitantly. "Are you guys all gay?" He spoke timidly, and when Wes and David laughed, I watched as hurt and embarrassment passed through him at the same time. It's not a question any of us had ever been asked before, and I knew they weren't laughing at _him_, but at the fact that he thought they could be gay. While I very much _was_, Wes and David definitely _weren't_. I didn't laugh and answered his question seriously, because I knew he was honestly confused and I already saw him reverting back into himself.

"No. I mean, I am, but these two have girlfriends."

"This is not a gay school. We just have a zero tolerance harassment policy."

"Everybody gets treated the same. No matter what they are. It's pretty simple." Kurt froze, lips parting slightly. He looked around slightly and he breathed in sharply, staring at the table. His eyebrows furrowed and I could feel the emotions coming off of him –astonishment, skepticism, bewilderment.

"Can you guys excuse us?" I asked, turning to them.

"Take it easy, Kurt," Wes said, and then they were both gone, leaving me alone with him.

"I – are you having trouble? At school?" It was the only thing I could think to say, and I never would have asked if I didn't think I was right. As an introverted person myself, I knew the signs of withdrawal, and I saw that Kurt was acting the same way I did. He was tentative, so tentative, because he didn't want to do or say the wrong thing. He was quiet and reserved, doing everything he could to try and blend into the background because it was just easier that way. He had detached himself from the things around him, life and people and _feeling_, so that he was removed and isolated – something that was uncomplicated.

"I'm the only person out of the closet at my school," he began, voice already thick. "And I – I tried to stay strong about it, but there's this Neanderthal who's made it his mission to make my life a living hell. And nobody seems to notice."

For a fleeting instant, I recognized myself in him. Eyes full of fear and pain looked into mine sadly, the blue-green pigments dull and heartbroken. I knew then exactly why this boy was the way he was. After years and years of screaming to be heard, of trying to get the smallest bit of love or attention from anyone, you eventually just give up. With every scrape and taunt and bruise from the hands of a vicious bully, you lose yourself. In the beginning, you fight it. You tell people, you get angry, you resist. Then teachers say they'll do something about it and you feel victorious, but only for a moment because they never do anything. The bullies get worse and their words start to hurt more than their fists, and crying becomes something that's just _there_ inside of you, ready at a moment's notice. You eventually learn that things won't change and that people can't help you. You know you're alone in this, that nobody cares at all, and it _hurts_. You can deal with the cuts but not the muffled shouts of _faggot_, and you start to find other ways to deal with the pain. You take it out on yourself because you can't take it out on them, and that's when you start to give up. You become a wallflower – hidden away, silent, out of view. You try not to feel anything and tell yourself that you're not worth very much, and then you start to believe it.

"I get it. I really… I understand."

"Do you?" he spit out angrily, and I wonder how many people have said that to him before.

"Yes," I said, my voice quiet, "because I've got a scar to prove it." It's not what I meant to say, not at all, but the effect on him is instantaneous. He froze, sucking in another sharp breath, and he must have known what I meant because his eyes flicked to my covered wrist for a split second.

"I – I'm sorry," he whispered softly, meeting my eyes. "I didn't realize."

"It's okay."

"It's not," he muttered, looking to his lap. "I shouldn't have said that, I just –"

"I know you think that every person you come into contact with is trying to hurt you, but I'm not like that."

"What? You don't even –"

"I understand more than you think I do." I gave him a sad smile, and he looked absolutely terrified. "Things are… they're hard. People are reclusive for a reason, and well, we're more similar than you'd expect."

"You don't know anything about me. I'm fine." He was able to change gears so quickly, flitting from sad to guilty to defensive in the span of ten seconds. It was probably a mechanism he used to cover up the things he didn't want people to know, and because he knew that I understood the truth of his situation, he got scared. I did the exact same thing so it was easy to recognize.

"You don't have to pretend with me, okay? I know you aren't fine and I know there are bruises under your shirt and I know that you've been hurt and disappointed and ignored by people, and I just – _I get it_."

"No," he argued, shaking his head quickly as he tried to backtrack. "You're wrong. I'm not pretending and there's nothing under my clothes that I'm hiding. You just met me and you don't have the right to go around assuming _anything_."

"A person's eyes and the way they talk and carry themselves says a lot about them," I stated. "You are _me_. If you were fine, you wouldn't be here. There's a reason I came to Dalton. I know it's the same for you."

"I should go."

"Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt," I told him, desperate to make him understand.

He bit his lip, and he looked away as ears gathered in his eyes and began to slip down his cheeks. I put my hand on top of his and he jumped, looking at me with distress. I don't know why I decided to do that, or why I said what I did, but I'm glad I did it.

"You can trust me. Okay?" I tighten my hold on his hand, determined to show him how much I really meant with my words."I know we just met, but I also know how you feel. I wish that I'd had someone there for me when I really needed it, but I didn't, and I don't want you going down the same path that I did. Let me help you. Just having someone to talk to will make you feel better. I promise, Kurt."

"I – I –" he stuttered, blinking rapidly. He sniffled and pulled his fingers away to furiously wipe under his eyes. With each tear he rubbed, a new one dripped to take its place. "You don't even know me," he repeated, his voice cracking. "Why are you doing this? Most people would – would be afraid to – to… touch me freely, to comfort me, to make – to make eye contact with me."

"You just… you look like you could use a friend," I murmured. _A friend_, I told myself, _and nothing more than that_. "It's going to be okay, Kurt."

"It won't," he told me thickly. "It won't ever be okay."

"Look at me." When he didn't, I put my hand under his chin and guided it up softly. His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet, but he was so beautiful. "I promise," I said again, staring into blue-green, "that things will get better. I'm gonna help you, okay? You don't have to be alone."

"Okay," he choked out, nodding his head as he squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

I still don't know exactly why I grabbed his hand on that staircase or told him about my scar or felt an overwhelming need to comfort him. I don't know why I trusted him so quickly and so immediately or why I was desperate to help him. He was broken, but he was brave in a way that I wasn't. I knew he would never say anything to anyone because of his pride, which is why he hid everything away, tucked it under a defensive exterior of sass and wit and sarcasm. He needed a friend, someone who would let him come undone and be nothing more than a small, terrified boy buried beneath his armor. He needed to finally _breathe_, to let out all of the air that he'd been holding in his lungs.

I knew that I would do anything to see that wonderful smile again, to be able to be there for him like he so desperately needed, regardless of the fact that I'd just met him. I knew that I would tell him things that I had never told anybody, because I felt _safe_ with him, for reasons I didn't quite understand. And I don't know why he decided to trust _me_, or why he let me take his hand when we were strangers, or why he didn't get up and leave after I kept pushing.

I guess fate just has a funny way of bringing people together.

* * *

**December, 2010 – Kurt**

When I'd met Blaine, everything had changed. Though I was still damaged beyond repair, reaching for that blade that was so damn determined to be used, I was starting to feel things that I never imagined I'd feel: happiness, and warmth, and something so, so good.

I'd only known him for five months, but he was the best friend I'd ever had. Honestly, other than Rachel, he was probably my _only_ friend. I could talk to her and I told her a lot, but with Blaine, it was just so _easy_. I knew he understood. From the moment we met, he just _knew_. When we talked later that night, he opened up to me about his past, and after that, I slowly learned to trust him. Even so, I never told him that I cut and I didn't plan on it, because I didn't want it to ruin the one good thing I had in my life. My scars followed me around, infecting everything I touched, contaminating any chance or scrap of joy that I'd manage to find. When I was with him, it was nice to pretend, for just a little while, that I was okay. That I was normal and happy and more than likely falling for a boy that I would never deserve to have.

I didn't think he'd ever realize how much he meant to me.

Before him, nobody paid attention to the things I did, nor did they make any attempts to ask why I would do something like wear long sleeves in the middle of August. It was all too easy to just… fade into the background, content with the quiet stinging of my blade and the soft _dripdrip_ of my blood in the sink. My classmates were too wrapped up in their own drama to pull themselves away, even for a second, to just _look_ at me and realize that I was nothing but a glass doll, cracking and breaking apart and only a few steps away from completely shattering. My father was busy with his new girlfriend, Carole, but we had never been close. After my mom died, we didn't know how to be around each other, so we drifted apart. If he wasn't quite able to learn how to handle having a gay son, how would he take to having a depressed son that spent his time in his room, slicing up skin? Our relationship never stood a chance.

I felt trivial, and so… insignificant. Nobody needed me. If I was to have died on that very same day he met me, everything would have kept moving. People would have continued with their daily routine of school or work, just like they did on any other given second. Parents would have picked up their children from daycare, or taken their pets on walks, or paid the bills. There were things to be done, routines and charades to keep up, deadlines to be met. The world didn't stop spinning just because someone had died. I was simply a blip – a tiny, inconsequential dot on the map of life. There were seven billion people on the planet; I didn't dare think I had the audacity to matter.

But then I met Blaine and my entire way of thinking was turned inside out. He made me feel important, like I mattered, and he made me see that maybe, just maybe, there was a _point_ to me. Like there was a reason I was here, barely alive and so sick of living and crying and hurting. He listened to me, and for the first time in my miserable life, I thought that there was one person on this planet that actually cared about me. He was so wonderful and so free in his attempts at comfort – whether that be wiping the tears from my cheeks or pulling me close against his chest and tucking me under his chin. I had never been one for physical contact, but I was drawn to the warmth of his body like a moth to a flame. It felt natural to me, and though I knew I didn't deserve it, didn't deserve _him_, I let myself close my eyes and just breathe.

And I liked him – much, much more than I was willing to admit to myself. I couldn't explain why I suddenly felt sparks in my veins, a kind of heat that was thawing the constant frost that had made its home under my skin. In all my years, the only thing I had ever been surrounded in was a frozen numbness, so the way he made me feel was such an entirely foreign concept. He made me smile, melted away the gray in my life and replaced it with the kinds of greens and reds and yellows that I never could have imagined. When I was with him, I was removed from the cold and the pain and the dull, dreary monotony. And, even if it was only for a second, I could imagine what it felt like to be loved.

He saved my life, and for that, I'll always be grateful.

* * *

**January 2nd****, 2011 – Blaine's Journal**

_I found a razor blade in Kurt's bathroom today. I was looking for a band aid and he wasn't in the room and I just… found it._

_I've had a sinking feeling in my gut for the last couple of weeks because something was just __off __about Kurt. Honestly, I had an inkling the day we met that he could have been a cutter, but I didn't want to make any rash judgments. I thought that he would eventually tell me if he was, but it never came up. He was upfront about his unhappiness from the beginning; he'd told me about the bullying and his mom dying and I knew that he was more than likely depressed. I tried my best to be there for him and let him know that he could always come to me, for anything. And I thought he was making progress, because he started smiling a lot more and he just seemed happier in general, but then one day he was just… somber. He was very quiet and I could tell that he'd been crying because his eyes were red. He was especially conscious of his arms that day, though they're always covered by a long-sleeved shirt or a jacket, even if it's warm. I never said anything and hoped that I was reading too much into it._

_But then I found the razor and I realized that I had been right all along. I felt so, so guilty because I should have known sooner, should have realized right away. I know what a cutter looks like, how they act and how they dress. And god, Kurt fits into all of the boxes I did. It broke my heart to know that Kurt was hurting himself like that, digging into his flesh and slicing away the parts of his body that he didn't want to keep anymore. I knew I should have told him that I used to cut, but because it's not something I like to talk about, I just kept my goddamn mouth shut when I could've said something and helped him. I think he knew because I said I had a scar when I met him, but it had been so long I didn't even know if he still remembered that. _

_I care about him so much and I know I shouldn't feel the things I do, but I can't help it. He's beautiful, and he's strong, and he's more than he'll ever know. I knew that I had to say something, had to help him – no matter what happened in the end, because I couldn't let him crumble and fade like I did._

_So I pulled him aside and said that I had found it. He panicked and tried to deny it, saying that it was just an extra one he used to shave with, but I knew he didn't have facial hair yet so he had no need for razor blades. I told him that I __knew__ and that it was okay and that I was going to help him. When he started to cry, I pulled him into my arms and he said, "Please don't leave me". And if I needed proof that I loved Kurt, the fragile but brave boy that had accidentally stumbled into my life, it was the way I felt in that moment. I know I don't deserve him, know that he should have someone so much better than me, because I'm a train wreck. I destroy everything in my path, ruin it beyond repair, and my past is littered with the proof of that: friends and grandparents and aunts and cousins that had thought I was somehow wrong, that couldn't look past the fact that I loved music and Rent and bowties; hospital bills from Sadie Hawkins dances and suicide attempts gone wrong; screaming matches in the middle of the night over my grades, not good enough, and __that boy__, me, not trying hard enough, and "you, John, not doing enough to make him more of a man." I've been blamed for every torn relationship and broken bone and bruise for my entire life, and there is some truth to that._

_But I love him – and of that, I'm sure. I fell so fast and so hard, and it's not something I can take back or change. I wouldn't want to even if I could. I know I should be running as far away from him as I can so I don't shatter his world to pieces, either. But why can't I be the one to help pick them up? Why can't I be there for him the way no one was for me? _

_I'll do it all for him, my father and his vicious words and all the scars on my arms be damned. I'll be better for him. I have to._

_I held him while he cried, and when his tears ran out, I sat him down on his bed. He looked exhausted and drained, but I needed him to talk to me and explain why he did it even though I knew. I asked and he glanced away, letting his head fall. He probably felt ashamed, because that's how I felt whenever I did it, so I looked him in the eyes and said that I wouldn't judge him. I tried to tell him that he was brave and strong for having to endure so much, but he replied with, "All it means is that I'm too weak to actually kill myself."_

"_You know you saved my life too you know," I whispered in response, pulling him to my chest. "I used to cut."_

"_You don't now?" he asked, voice thick and eyes wet._

_I shook my head. "I don't need to anymore. But I did before you. A lot." _

_I rolled up my sleeve, a few smaller raised marks brought to attention by the fluorescent lighting. Because I'd taken care of the cuts, most of them had healed without any permanent damage – on my arm, anyways. The nastier ones were on the inside of my thigh where I knew no one would ever find them. But then there was a single scar, about six inches long, running along the length of most of my forearm. It was jagged and harsh, filled with the memories that I'd tried to drain out of me._

"_That," I began unsteadily, quietly, "was from when I tried to commit suicide. I was fourteen."_

"_That's the one from Dalton." _

_I nodded. He choked back a breath, a stuttered "why?" falling from between his lips._

"_I came out and my parents couldn't handle it. So I couldn't handle it."_

_I left it at that, sitting with him for a few quiet moments. I rocked him, murmuring into his ear and rubbing my hand against his back, as I often did to get him to calm down. Eventually, he told me, in a thick and heartbroken voice, that he thought he had been feeling better lately, so I asked him why he felt that way._

"_I met you," he said, shaking his head as tears dripped down his cheeks. "And everything changed."_

_He doesn't understand how beautiful he really is._

* * *

**January, 2011 - Kurt**

When Blaine found out about my cutting, I was terrified. Absolutely and utterly horrified, because I'd kept it a secret for a reason. I was certain that he'd be as disgusted as I was with myself and that he would think I was weak. I didn't know if he would continue to be my friend, because even though I knew he had cut in the past, it was just… different. It was me. I was pathetic and he, well, wasn't.

But as always, he surprised me. He didn't leave and he didn't judge me for even a second. He listened and held me and promised that everything would be okay, and for a moment, I believed him. He stayed, and that's more than I could've ever asked for.

He told me I saved his life and he let me see his scar. It was a long one, very deep, and it had needed twenty-three stitches. It was one aimed to kill, he said, because right after his parents had found out about him being gay, everything had fallen apart. I could sense there was something he wasn't telling me, that there was more to the story, but I let it go. Maybe it wasn't meant for me to know. But I did know one thing: He did the only logical thing he could think of at the time. He ran into the arms of the blade, got caught up in the rush, and let the blood nearly empty from his veins in one single cut. It's something I'd imagined doing for years, something I'd tried but never been able to get quite right, and I was jealous.

And when I started crying, he held me and told me that he was there and that he wasn't leaving, and I felt safe. So I told him everything. It was scary and I cried through all of it, but it was like a weight had been lifted off my chest when I was done because I'd never said most of those things out loud before. When I was finished, he murmured in my ear that I was worth so much more than what I thought of myself. _"You are strong, and brave, and beautiful," _he whispered, and then he paused for a moment before he pressed his lips to mine, softly and gently. He took my face in his hands and he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

I had never been kissed before.

* * *

**March, 2011 – Blaine**

Because Kurt and I had been dating for a few months, I hoped that somehow it would be easier for me to help him. I thought that if he finally realized that he mattered, to me and to others, it would've given him the motivation he needed to try and get better. But I needed him to get better for _him_, not because I wanted him to. Rather than trying to "fix" him, I was just there when he needed me most, to offer a pair of ears or arms or comforting words.

Now, I knew that us being together wasn't magically going to make Kurt's problems go away. I wasn't that naïve. I knew that he was still hurting and we ended many nights with me having to come over and hold him and clean up his arms because he'd relapsed. Sometimes he'd call me after he cut, broken down in tears because he didn't mean to do it, and other times he wouldn't tell me and I'd have to find out on my own. I felt like we were right back at square one whenever that happened, because all it took was one scar to open the door to his self-hatred and disgust. He had good days and he had bad days, just as everyone else does. He would go a week or two without harming himself, but then one thing could trigger him and he'd end up with dozens of red marks littering his arms and legs.

I didn't know what to do, and eventually realized that I needed to find him professional help because everything I did wasn't working. So one day, I brought up the idea of therapy, and he didn't react well.

"No," he replied immediately after I'd asked, tensing. He turned his back to me, gripping the counter.

"Kurt, it might help –"

"I'm not going."

"You really hurt yourself last night –"

"I said I'm not going!" He whirled around, his hands in the air and his face full of anxiety.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry. I'm just..." I walked up, pulling him into my arms, and he melted into my embrace, eyes falling shut as he let out a long, shuddering breath. "You need help that I can't give you, Kurt."

"I'm fine."

"Then what happened last night?" I let my hand lightly slide over the top of his left wrist, pressing my thumb softly against the bandage as I felt the rhythmic thump of his pulse.

He paused, silent for a moment. "I don't – I don't know, it was just a slip up," he said quietly.

"Just a slip up? Honey, there were ten of them." I kissed his hair. "I can't watch you do this to yourself. It hurts me."

"I know it does, and I want – I want to get better," he told me, pulling back with tears shining in his eyes. "_You_ make me want to get better. I just – it's so hard sometimes, and I can't – I can't –"

"Shh, don't cry," I murmured, and when he wrapped his arms around me, I ran my hands up and down his back. "It's okay. You _can_ do this, Kurt. I'll always be here, but there are just some things that I can't do for you."

"I can't tell some – some c-complete stranger about my problems," he cried, shaking his head into my chest. "Please don't make me."

"You know I would never force you to do anything." I held him tighter and swayed us a little, doing my best to soothe him.

"I can – I can talk to you more," he said fervently, looking up at me with wet cheeks. "I'll try not to cut and I'll –"

"Shh, calm down." I swiped my thumb over his tears, resting my forehead against his. I pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "Here, come with me."

I took his hand and led him to the couch, and when we sat down, he put his head in my lap. I ran my fingers through his hair as he stared at the ceiling, quiet except for the occasional sniffle.

"Okay, what about this," I started after a few minutes of silence. He sat up and I took the opportunity to completely dry his eyes with my fingers. I kept one hand on his jaw and the other tangled with his. "Go on anti-depressants. No therapy, just medication."

"… I could – I could try that."

"And keep a journal." I pulled him closer, kissing his temple.

"You really –you think that – that it'll help?"

"It helps me," I told him. "There's just something about written word that's so… free. You can _control_ what you write. You can say on paper what's too hard to say out loud. And a journal won't judge you or think that you're weak, no matter what you write. It's private, and physically writing it all down, actually admitting to yourself the things that you don't want to accept, can help you work through and process all of those emotions. I think it's worth a shot."

"What do you write about?" he asked quietly, lying back down in my lap.

"Everything," I said. "I've kept a journal since I was thirteen. I wrote about coming out and how hard it was. After that, it was Cooper and my father… and what he – what he did to me. Then it was Dalton and adjusting to life without my parents. Now it's mostly about you."

He was still for a long time, probably thinking my words over in his head. I thought he was going to ask my more about my past, which he only knew a fraction of, but he didn't. Eventually he let out a breath and then nodded, looking back up at the ceiling. "Okay."

The corners of my mouth twitched hopefully. "Okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, but his voice was thick. "I want to get better, I really do. And after last night… I just, I don't want to go back there. And if this helps, then I'm – I'm willing to try."

"Good," I told him, grabbing his other fingers and linking mine with his. "I promise, it will help you feel so much better, okay? Instead of taking your anger out on yourself, you can take it out on the paper."

"I guess."

"Hey, look at me." His head turned and his eyes shifted to meet mine. He let out a shuddery breath, tears shining in his eyes, so I bent down and kissed his forehead, running my thumb over his knuckles. "It's going to be okay."

"God, I'm so sick of crying," he said in frustration as the drops started to drip down his skin, removing his hand from mine and angrily wiping his cheeks.

"Crying doesn't make you weak, you know," I murmured.

"Yes it does," he argued, spitting the words out bitterly.

"Come 'ere." I opened my arms and he sat up from my lap, scooting so that his head was on my chest. He wrapped himself around my middle, burying his head in my neck as the warm tears continued to fall. "Everything will be alright," I whispered, not knowing what else to say. I grazed my fingers up and down his back, tightening my hold on him. "You wanna know why?" I was at his ear, breath warm against his skin.

He pulled away and he had the heartbroken look of a person that was falling apart on the inside and spiraling out of control without a way to help himself. His eyes met mine.

"Because you are _strong_," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his lips, and then punctuated each sentence with another. "And brave. And kind. And loving. And important." I searched his face to make sure he understood just how much I meant my words. "You aren't alone, Kurt. And I'm so proud of you and how far you've come."

"You make me want to be better," he said simply, sniffling. So I took the opportunity to say what I'd wanted to say since that very first day I'd kissed him, and I knew he felt the same way.

"I am so in love with you," I breathed out, resting my head against his. I stared into his blue-green eyes, and for a moment everything was frozen and neither of us moved or blinked or stopped to take in air. It was just me and him and my words, and then a heartbeat, and then his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat before he broke out into a smile.

"I love you, too," he told me, and then he leaned in and covered my mouth with his.

His cheeks were still wet and his hair was rumpled, but when I looked at him, he was the most beautiful person in the world to me.

It didn't matter that I'd only known him for eight months and that we'd only been dating for three. I knew how I felt. I thought that with our love, we could do anything. That he would get better and we'd get married and live happily ever after. I'd met him and suddenly, my life was flipped on its head and everything was moving so fast because I fell before I had a chance to realize what was happening. We were forever – infinite, living without an expiration date – and nothing else in the world mattered more to me than him.

I thought he felt the same, and maybe that's why it hurt so much when he left.


	4. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is probably one of the most important things I'm ever gonna tell you guys. This story is very dark and I've said that a lot. We're heading into some very touchy and very **_**real**_** territory starting now so you need to be prepared. I've worked incredibly hard to make sure that this comes off as an honest portrayal of depression (and as we go down the line, any other disorders that get tackled). I've been researching and doing as much as I can to write it realistically and truthfully and I really hope that I got it right. That being said, this is just **_**one**_** representation of depression. I'm not saying that everyone that is diagnosed with it goes through what Kurt does, this is just how I've decided to write **_**Kurt's**_** diagnosis, particularly because he's dealing with self-harm issues as well.**

**Also please note that this is a very AU story, so pretty much the only thing that follows canon is them meeting at Dalton and the year age gap. Kurt never transferred, nor is he close with his father, so if something isn't explicitly mentioned, don't assume that it holds true in this verse.**

**Another thing I forgot to mention last time: Dates play an ****incredibly**** important role in this story. They're kind of essential to follow the events, so make sure you're paying attention to them! The dates will always be in chronological order, but just in case you get confused, I've got the timeline under the title heading for each chapter. **

**Music also plays an extremely important role in this story, which you'll start to see as we get a little deeper into it. The song in this chapter is ****Ready to Lose by Ingrid Michaelson**** and I highly, highly recommend you listen to it before/while you read. I've spent more time than y'all probably want to know picking songs for this fic, so they're pretty significant. (I know most authors don't usually push on the music thing, but I will so I apologize in advance. It enhances the reading and emotional experience more than I can describe in this insanely long authors note, so just give it a try, k?)**

**Chapter length varies throughout the story, but I'm not gonna lie, this one's a monster. So, without further adieu, I present one of my favorite chapters…**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm****. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: Mentions of depression, cancer, and suicide.**

* * *

**Chapter 2 – Ready To Lose**

_(Kurt &amp; Blaine, April 2011 – January 2012)_

* * *

"_**And in the end, we were all just humans drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness." – **_**F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby**

* * *

**Blaine**

After Kurt agreed to keep a journal and go on anti-depressants, I expected things to get worse before they got better. Every day with him was different and I didn't know what kind of mood he would be in until I came over. Sometimes he would be excited to see me and we would spend the whole day cuddling on the couch and watching movies and everything would be normal, like it was supposed to be. No crying or bandaging up his scars or talking him off the metaphorical (and sometimes literal) ledge. Those days were always my favorite.

But a lot of the time, things were really, really awful. The first two months were especially horrible, because there were some days that he couldn't stop crying or yelling and it was then that I knew he didn't take his medication. He hated taking it, so most of the time he would put them under his tongue and then spit them out when we weren't looking. When we discovered what he was doing and started watching him to make sure he took them, he began going to the bathroom to shove his fingers down his throat so that he'd throw the pills up.

"How are they helping?" he would scream at me whenever I caught him. "I'm not me when I'm on them! I shouldn't need a pill to be normal!"

He despised it when we asked him how he was feeling. Whenever we would hover over him or slyly try to slip in 'is it a good day or a bad day?', he would get upset because he was sick of everything revolving around a _stupid fucking question_. And looking back on it, I can understand that. The first thing I would do when I went to see him was ask how him how he was – and not in a typical greeting kind of way. He knew what I meant. _Did you cut today? Did you take your pill? Is there a reason you're quiet? _Hidden between those three little words was an endless stream of questions, and I would hold my breath, hoping to hear that yes, he was okay. He didn't even have to be happy, because I knew that wasn't always possible, but I didn't want him to get so worked up in his anger that he would become self-destructive.

And we fought. A lot. Kurt was angry often and I was just trying to help, not able to let myself leave him alone simply for the sake of avoiding an argument. The fights weren't always long or every day, but the tension was there: when I followed him up the stairs to check on him; when I searched his bathroom cabinets looking for blades; when I brought up his medication or illness or therapy. These were all things that Cooper (my brother) had done for me after I'd tried killing myself only a few weeks after being put into his custody. And I'd hated him for it, despised the fact that he lingered and waited for me to screw up, waited for me to scream or break something or hurt myself. I never got a moment alone because he knew better than that. He knew what I was capable of – just like I knew what Kurt was capable of. So I knew that I was doing the right thing by keeping a constant eye on him, even though it felt wrong when I saw the way it made him feel sometimes.

I needed to be there for him even when he was so angry that he just sat quietly in his room, cracking his fingers and pacing and not saying a word to me. When he was so sad that the only way he knew how to make the pain go away was to cut himself in the darkness of his bathroom at three in the morning. When he was so lost that he couldn't fathom keeping up this _act_, this façade of pretending that everything was going to be okay when he felt in his bones that it would _never_ be okay. When he was so absolutely blinded by rage that he screamed and threw things, always building and bubbling inside him until he broke.

Because even though he didn't realize it, I knew what he was doing: pushing me away. He wanted to know what my breaking point was, when I'd pack my things up and take my heart with me and slip out the back door. He would keep pushing and pushing until he could find a way to make me go away so that he wouldn't hurt me anymore than he already had.

But he also needed proof that I would be there even when the only sounds in the room were from his feet on the carpet and the clinking of his fingernails; when he called me in the middle of the night, sobbing that he'd _done it_ again; when the truth that it could be years before he got better was laid out in front of us like a road that didn't have a stop light; when he yelled and broke the mirror and slapped at me with his fists. He needed to know that I would stay, even when he became a new person, transformed into this horribly ugly monster that took over his body even when he didn't want it to.

And I did. Just like Cooper stayed with me.

What he didn't know was that the thought of leaving never crossed my mind, not even for a second. Not ever.

* * *

**June, 2011 – Blaine**

After a particularly nasty fight about Kurt being adamant that he was fine when it was obvious he wasn't, I followed him down to the basement. I gave him ten minutes to calm down by himself before I knocked lightly on the door.

"Kurt? I'm coming in."

I found him lying on a rug with his eyes closed, in front of an old dresser with all the drawers pulled open. I stepped slowly into the room, confused by the sight. "What's all this?"

"It was my mom's," he murmured, and my eyes softened. I sighed and went to sit down next to him. He breathed in deeply, a faint smile crossing his lips. "She always used to smell so good. Eventually, all her clothes stopped smelling like her, but this never did."

"What happened?" I asked him quietly after a stretch of silence.

"I was almost eight when they found the tumor," he replied, but it was as if he was far away, reciting the story like he'd probably done so a dozen times already. "It ate her brain up before my ninth birthday even hit."

"Kurt, I –"

"It's okay. You don't have to tell me you're sorry." Long minutes passed and neither one of us said anything. I moved into a laying position next to him, finding his fingers and lacing them in my own. "She would've loved you, you know."

"I'm sure I would have loved her too," I whispered. "I hope she knows I'm doing everything I can to make you happy."

"I suppose she knew before she died that I'd find someone like you, but there's no way for her to know now. But I know, Blaine. And that's enough."

Another ten minutes went by without a word. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic inhale and exhale of our breathing mixed with the slide of my thumb over his palm. Eventually, I spoke.

"What happened with you and your dad after she…"

"After she died?" he finished. "We just… lost touch. Drifted apart. He did his thing and I did mine. Even when I was little, he never knew what to do with the fact that I liked tea parties and dress up and singing with my mom while she got ready in front of her vanity. But she did. She always set up the plastic cups and the little plastic scones and let me try on her sparkly heels that were six sizes too big and sang Britney Spears with me when she did her hair – humored me, I guess. I've always been different and I think she knew that before anyone else. She loved me just as much. But then she was gone and there was no one to explain to my dad what an easy bake oven was or that I liked the Powerpuff Girls, not Power Rangers. As I got older and the bullies got worse, I just… became this. Started spiraling and shutting down. My walls went up as his guard went down, so we lived two separate lives in the same house. And it – it's getting a little better now, but it'll never be like it was with her."

There wasn't anything I could've said in that moment to make his pain go away, so I simply held his fingers between mine a little tighter. I said nothing else after that, letting him lie there and work through what he needed to, surrounded by the scent of innocence.

* * *

**June 2****nd****, 2011 – Kurt**

"… Rachel? I – I need – can you come over?" I was standing in my bathroom with my razor clutched between my fingers, blood pooling in the sink. My phone, off to the side on speaker, crackled when she came through.

"What happened? What's wrong, are you okay?"

"I just, I can't call Blaine and tell him – tell him what I did, so I thought I'd call you and maybe you could – could come over and help me because I don't know if I can stop and my arm won't stop bleeding and I really need you right now," I told her in a rush, a tightness forming in my chest as I stared at the cuts on my wrist.

"Kurt," she began, voice deathly serious. "I need you to put the blade down, okay? Can you do that for me?"

I listened the jingle of her keys and the closing of her front door, shutting my eyes as I tried to focus on my breathing.

_ I shouldn't have called her. This was a mistake. She's going to tell Blaine and make me stop –_

"I – yeah…"

"Can you set it on the counter for me, Kurt?"

"I – I'm standing over the sink," I responded dumbly.

"Okay, how about the tub? Can you walk over and set it in there?"

I glanced down at my hand, noticing that it was now slicing into my palm. I let out a shaky breath as more blood dripped off my wrist, sliding down the drain and leaving a rusty orange trail in its place. I didn't want to put it down.

"– Kurt?"

"I'm – I'm here."

"Talk to me, what's going on? Did you get it away from you?"

_ Lie. Tell her you put it in the tub._

"Um, I – I…" My words trailed off and I squeezed my eyes shut again, panicking.

"Kurt, I need you to put it somewhere you can't see it," she said, slowly but urgently. "Can you do that?"

I loosened my grip on the razor enough to where it wasn't cutting into my skin and I stood there for a moment, getting used to the feeling. Then in one quick motion, I opened my fingers, bloody with cuts, and let it clatter against the porcelain.

"It's – it's in the sink."

"Good, that's good. Keep talking, Kurt, you're doing great."

I leaned down, resting my elbows on the counter as I pushed the backs of my hands into my eyes. I sucked in a deep breath, swallowing hard. A thin line of red slipped down the inside of my arm and I quickly wiped it away.

"How do you – how do you picture your life in five years?" I choked out in a high voice, forcing myself to look away from my arms.

I could tell she was thrown off guard by my question because it took her a few moments to respond.

"I'd like to think that I'll be in New York with you and Blaine, maybe even Finn. On Broadway somewhere, just finishing up with school. What about you?" she asked, clearly attempting to distract me.

"I don't – I don't know. I can't see myself anywhere in five years."

I heard the hitch in her breath when she continued, trying to keep me talking.

"What about Blaine? You don't think you'll be with him in five years?"

"I don't know," I repeated, and that was all it took for the tears that had steadily been building behind my eyes to start rolling down my cheeks. "I don't know, I don't know."

"Hey, no, shh," she said. "Blaine loves you, Kurt, more than anything, you know that."

"Five years is such a – such a long time away and I'm so – so tired, Rach."

"I'm pulling in now Kurt, it's okay. You're doing so good. I'll be there soon, alright?"

I silently nodded as I tipped my chin to my chest and cried. Less than a minute later, she was running through my bedroom door and into my bathroom, pulling me against her chest.

"Y-your shirt –"

"Doesn't matter."

I wrapped my arms around her back, holding my bleeding wrists out, and buried my face in her neck.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm always here for you, yeah?" she told me, pulling away and wiping some of the tears off of my face before grabbing a hold of my elbows. "Let's clean you up."

Fifteen minutes later, we were both on my bed. I was leaning back against my headboard, knees pulled up to my chest with my bandaged arms wrapped around them, and she was sitting in front of me.

"You wanna talk to me?" she murmured quietly, brushing one of her hands against my feet. "How come you called me and not Blaine?"

"I couldn't."

"He would've come, Kurt, I know it."

I was silent for a long while, gritting my teeth as I felt burning in the corners of my eyes again.

"…He thought I was doing better now. I couldn't take that away from him."

Her eyes softened and I looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

"Kurt. Hey, look at me." I turned my head back to her, angrily swiping my cheeks. "He knows that you're trying. He knows that you're not going to be one hundred percent better right now, it's only been a few months. You are doing tremendously well. Okay? You have to tell him the truth, he deserves to know. He wants to help you and be there for you, whether things are good or bad."

"I know that, I just… I got scared. I _am_ scared. I could be sick for a long time and it's a lot to handle but I don't – I don't wanna die, Rach," I cried. "I don't."

"Come here." She crawled up to me, wrapping me in a hug. "Shh, I know. I know. Sometimes you just hurt and you don't know what else to do."

"I didn't even want to do it but once I did I couldn't stop. I just wish everything could… end. I don't want to die but I'm so sick of living sometimes."

She didn't tell me that things would get better, or that _I_ would get better if I tried harder, or to just keep my head up and keep going. She was smarter than that, and so was I. There are some days that just hurt more than others; that happened to be one of them. Neither of us knew what the future held and telling yourself a lie, hoping that if you say it enough it'll become real, that's just running away.

So instead she just sat with me. She listened to me cry and talk about everything that was going through my head and then eventually, I ran out of tears and words. She held my hand until I exhausted myself into sleep, and when I woke up, she was still there.

* * *

**June 21****st****, 2011 – Kurt's Journal**

_It's hard. Every day I wake up and I question my decision to do this, to write in the journal and to not cut and to go on anti-depressants. When Blaine asked me, I didn't think I would do it. Sometimes they make me fuzzy and change my mood and I feel weak when I take them, but then he'll call and I'll hear his voice and I know I'm doing the right thing. _

_I haven't cut in almost three weeks, since that night Rachel came over. I know it doesn't seem like much, but to me it's proof of how far I've come since he's been in my life. When my skin itches and craves the sharp sting of the razor, I write. Sometimes it's poems and sometimes it's journal entries, like now. I was doubtful about it at first because I didn't understand how this was supposed to help me, but it does. It's a welcome distraction; rather than slash my skin and tell a story through the way the blood drips down my arm, I can do it through the way my wrist feels when my pen flows seamlessly across a paper. He's teaching me how to play the piano, too, so I'm starting to write songs. They're not all that good yet, but it's still another way for me to get out my negative energy. And when I do relapse and go back to the blade for comfort, Blaine comes over and he holds me and we figure it out. Together._

_After I took the leap and committed to getting better, he sat my father and I down so that we could talk about everything. He apologized a hundred times and said that he loved me, that he had __always__ loved me, but he just hadn't known how to handle the situation. He wanted to do something to help, but I'd built a wall around myself and he didn't know how to break through it. While it wasn't exactly an excuse, I understood where he was coming from – I had pushed him away for so long and never really gave him the opportunity to do anything._

_But now we're learning, slowly, how to be around each other again. Ever since my mom died, there's been a disconnect between us. Now I know that he cares about me and wants to see me happy, like Blaine does. They've bonded over the last few weeks and it's a comforting feeling. I was always terrified of how he would react to me having a boyfriend, but he treats Blaine just how he treats Rachel – like family. He accepts us, accepts me, and it's more than I could have ever asked for._

_We'll never be close like we should've been, but anything is better than empty conversations and silent dinners._

* * *

**Blaine**

Together, Kurt and I tackled the reality of being in a relationship with someone who had depression. It was hard, and my being with him didn't always make it easier for him – and that's something I learned: you have to let people help themselves. You can't do it for them, nor can you force them into doing it. I couldn't love Kurt into happiness just as he couldn't love away my demons. While I didn't think I was depressed, I knew that the memories of my past were still following me around, keeping me up at night. I was straddling a line, somewhere between feeling like I wanted to curl in on myself to make sure the truth never got out and feeling like I wanted to rid my body of the poison and finally, finally be honest with him.

And it took a toll on us. We were two different people with two very different problems and when you add it all together, it seemed like the only thing we'd get out of it was one giant, strung-out disaster. But we got through it. Because I loved him and he loved me and because we put in a lot of effort to make sure that we stayed together even when things were difficult. We knew that it was hard to have the issues that we did and have a significant other at the same time, but we couldn't imagine having to have gone through it by ourselves.

As the months went on, I began to notice that his good days were starting to outnumber his bad ones. I knew that he would still be hurting and that he was still depressed sometimes – it was a fact we had to accept and learn to deal with – but I thought that things would be alright. He was getting better. _We_ were getting better, and he eventually understood that I only did the things I did to help him, not to patronize or suffocate him. His angry outbursts eventually quieted into the frustrated conversations we had whenever I made him upset, and I was glad for that. It meant that he was coming to terms with what was happening and learning to control his feelings.

His scars slowly began to heal and as they started to fade, it felt like a new beginning for us.

* * *

**August 12****th****, 2011 – Kurt's Journal**

_These last five months have been an emotional roller coaster, but I'm learning how to live again._

_I have a family now. Blaine and Rachel and my dad and even Finn and Carole; they all love me. I never noticed it before, but they care a lot about me and I'm lucky to have them in my life. Blaine and I are closer than we've ever been and I don't think it's possible for me to love someone as much as I love him. He's incredible and wonderful and he's so, so good to me. He gave me back my life and there isn't a way I can repay him for that. I can say with confidence now that Rachel is my best friend, other than Blaine, and we've grown so much closer because of this. From the second I introduced Blaine to her all those months ago, they've been inseparable. We're like a little family and we've even got plans to move to New York when we all graduate, which is something I never expected to have: a future._

_Some days are good and some days are really bad, but that's okay. Being happy is such a new experience for me and sometimes it's overwhelming. The medicine and the journal help, but I really think it's just the fact that I'm not feeling so alone anymore that's helping me the most. Before, when I thought no one cared or loved me, I had no reason to stop what I was doing. But now, I __want__ to stop. For them. Sometimes I yell a lot and I get angry and still cry, but Blaine says that's a good thing, because it means that I'm working through my emotions. As time goes on, my outbursts are less and less and I'm so relieved because I hate hurting them. _

_Blaine's also opening up to me more, which is incredible. I love being able to help him like he helps me. Even though I have to convince him that I'm alright, that it's a good day and I'm not so fragile anymore, he can still be so hesitant. I can usually get him to talk to me when something's bothering him, though. I told him that it has to be a give and take, that I can't just keep taking and taking and not do something for him in return. Relationships can't be one-sided, and that's how I felt in the beginning – like he was doing so much for me but I wasn't doing anything for him. But now I am, and it's a great feeling._

_On one night a few weeks ago he said to me, "I love you unconditionally. You're mine and I'm yours. Nothing else in the world matters more to me. In any version of reality that we live in, in any state of mind, on good days and on bad, I will __always__ love you." We made love for the first time, and though all of my scars were visible, I don't think I'd ever felt more beautiful. Because __he__ made me feel beautiful._

_I hope I can love him forever._

* * *

**August 20****th****, 2011 – Kurt's Journal **

_I haven't cut since the beginning of the month. _

_I haven't cried in two weeks. _

_School starts soon and Blaine is transferring to McKinley to be with me for my senior year._

_I'm really, really happy._

* * *

**September 14****th****, 2011 – Kurt**

We were sitting on the swing on my porch, Blaine curled into my side with his head on my shoulder and a blanket thrown over the two of us. We were perfectly okay just being in each other's company without the obligation to carry conversation, and it was a calm, silent night – something we would never get used to. There was nothing but me and him and the innumerable amount of stars in the great expanse of the sky above us.

"I used to come out here when I got lonely," I confessed quietly, hand tenderly playing with the curls at the nape of his neck.

"Yeah?" he hummed into my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Mm-hm," I said. "There are so many stars and so much space, and I just – I felt like I had someone to listen to me. It was the place where I could say anything, where I didn't have to hide because what I said could never be repeated. I think the sky knows more secrets than any person ever could. How many people around the world do you think lie under them at night and confess what's on their mind? It was like a safe haven for me, you know? But then I met you, so I didn't need the stars to know my secrets; I just told them to you instead. They're still beautiful to look at though, don't you think?" I glanced down at Blaine and he smiled at me, lacing our fingers together as he spoke softly.

"We take up such a microscopic and absolutely insignificant fraction of the universe and it's crazy to think about how much we've never explored. It's terrifying. Anything could be out there. It makes us all seem so… small." We were still for a moment, the crickets chirping all around us. "And we _are_ the stars, you know? Everything that we've ever known comes from them. So, in a way, you're like my little star, bright and special."

"I love you," I told him.

"I love you too," he murmured back. "Always will." I smiled and kissed the side of his head. I pointed up to the sky, at the star that always shined the brightest, and I scooted as close to him as possible so that we were in the same line of sight.

"Do you see that?" I asked. "The really bright one over there?" He nodded, eyes flitting back to me for a moment. "Whenever you miss me, or anytime you're feeling sad, I want you to come outside and find that star, okay? It's the North Star. And every time you see it, I want you to know that I love you and that I miss you too. And that wherever I am, I'm thinking of you, always."

"Okay," he agreed, hooking his chin over my shoulder and resting his head against mine.

"I love you, Blaine Anderson. I love you to the moon and back and even farther than all of the planets and stars that we don't even know exist. Don't you ever forget that."

"I won't," he promised, kissing my jaw. "Maybe in ten years we can come back here. We'll leave Ohio and never look back, go out and explore the world and make something of ourselves. You'll become a top-name fashion designer, I'll become a famous performer, and we can even bring Rach along; she can play Fanny in Funny Girl. But then after we've had our fill, we move upstate and settle down. Get a house with a little white picket fence, a dog. Two kids – one boy, one girl. Show them that anything is possible. How does that sound?"

"Mm," I hummed with a smile, my eyes closed. "I'd say that you're crazy because you just mentioned children and we've been dating for less than a year and we're still in high school, but I won't lie, that does have a certain… appeal to it."

"We've never been conventional, you know that."

"No," I mock gasped. "I don't know about you, but _I_ was under the impression that we were extraordinarily ordinary."

"So maybe we found each other sooner than expected," he said. "Now we just get to spend the rest of our lives loving each other. Is it really that crazy?"

I glanced over at him through the corners of my eyes, giving him a look. We started laughing at the same time, because we knew: not only was our love story incredibly improbable, it was nearly impossible to believe.

I pressed my lips to his as he placed his hand on my cheek.

"Who needs realistic?" he murmured, and I grinned into the kiss.

* * *

**Blaine**

Kurt being on anti-depressants made things hard because his dosage was continually being adjusted so that he could find what his body could handle, and he was eventually switched to Prozac because the medication he was on, Zoloft, wasn't working as well as it should have been. We both knew that his happiness could be a sporadic thing; there one day and gone the next. Sometimes his angry little monsters came in short bursts – a snappy reply with a glare here, an argument over my worrying about him there. But sometimes they decided to stay for a bit and wreak havoc in his brain, taking over his body and interrupting his progress only to leave just as quickly as they had come.

While I was well-aware that he didn't always mean the things he said, not when it was his illness speaking on his behalf, it didn't mean that it never hurt. And there was one night in particular when this was especially true. Kurt had just started the Prozac and he'd been short and distant for a few days, acting like a different person. I tried to give him some space, but when I wanted to help, he got upset. It ended in a fight where we screamed things at each other that we'd never be able to take back, things that never should have been said. It was about a month after we sat on the porch swing, and it was the biggest argument we'd ever gotten in up until that point.

* * *

**October, 2011 - Blaine**

"I'm not _you_!" Kurt yelled, throwing his bottle of pills into the corner of the kitchen. "You can't treat me like a fucking broken china glass and try to piece me back together because you think it somehow makes up for what your family did to you!" I took a deep breath as I watched them scatter across the floor, the sound ringing with the pounding of the blood in my ears. _At least it wasn't a plate like last time_. "I'm a person! I'm not a child, I'm not a goddamn diagnosis! Stop looking at me like you can fix me because I can handle myself! You're down my throat every fucking second of the day and I can't breathe! Just leave me alone!"

"You don't even _know_ what my parents did to me!" I suddenly exploded, fury racing thrumming through my veins. "You don't get to throw that in my face! I'm fucking trying to help you and you refuse to accept it!" I stepped closer to him, staring him in the eyes. "Grow up, Kurt. If you want to stop being treated like a child, then stop acting like one."

"Fuck you," he spat. "I'm in this _situation_ because of you! You forced me to go on that goddamn medicine! And I'd back off, because without me you wouldn't have anyone. You'd have Cooper and that's only because he's fucking family and he got stuck with you." He shoved past me, storming from the room and out the front door.

Instantaneously, all of the air left my body in one breath. I stood numbly, hand clutching my chest as I stumbled backwards into the counter, feeling the effect of what he said to me. I brought shaky fingers to my mouth and tried to remember how to breathe while his words echoed a harsh, clamoring sound in my brain.

_ He didn't mean that. He didn't._

A choked noise came from between my lips as my heart stuttered under my ribcage. I slowly shook my head, as if in denial, and began to pace around the kitchen with my arms behind my neck. I felt the prickle of tears and the tightness forming in my throat already, so I closed my eyes and focused on evening out my breathing.

_ One, two, in,_ I counted._Three, four, out._

Except when I hit five, I inhaled and that was it, I was crying, sobbing into the empty room like I'd just been shot. I braced myself against the sink, gripping it like I would've crumpled to the floor without its support. And in all honesty, I would have. Because I knew Kurt was right.

I only had Rachel because Kurt introduced us; she was his friend, not mine. I was just her best friend's boyfriend, what did she care about me or my problems? She was certainly under no obligation and she had more than enough on her plate dealing with Kurt. And Cooper was my brother – forced to take me in because our parents refused to. He had no other option _but_ to allow me to live with him, which meant that he never really _chose_ me.

_ He got stuck with you._

_ He got stuck with you._

_ He got stuck with you._

He'd been angry with me before, on more occasions than I could count. He'd screamed vicious words at me and thrown things far worse than a bottle of pills, but somehow this hurt so much more. Because it was personal. He'd never brought my past into it before, even when he was the nastiest I'd ever seen him.

I walked across the house to my room, each step feeling like lead, like my feet were too heavy to continue moving, like the weight of the world was crashing down on my shoulders. I opened the door, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand so I that I could see through my blurry vision. I went to my bed and sat down on it slowly, taking deep breaths even though it felt like my lungs were about to catch fire.

I was suddenly exhausted and strung thin, as if every bad thing that my parents or my classmates or anyone else in the whole goddamn world had ever said to me was rushing into my body and choking me from the inside out.

And if Kurt felt the same way as they did… what did that say about who I was?

* * *

**October, 2011 – Kurt**

The second the door had slammed shut behind me, rattling in its frame, I realized what I'd done. I knew that I'd allowed the medicine to take over, letting it say something so awful and wrong and _evil_, something I would never be able to take back. And I knew that I wouldn't ever forget the look I saw on his face as soon as I said the words: absolute, choking shock.

Quick, as easy as breaking the stem of a flower. That's how long it took me to hurt him.

I'd gotten so angry and once I started yelling, I was like a tornado, flying through the kitchen and throwing things and destroying everything in my path. Nothing could've stopped me – stopped the _Prozac_ – because any part of me that was _me_ was gone, replaced with chemicals and anger that wasn't even mine. I'd been made into something that I wasn't, like I was watching myself yell at him from under my own skin, frozen and unable to move. In my head, I was screaming at my brain to stop and calm down and _look at Blaine, look at his face, look at what you're doing to him, _but it was all in vain. I simply couldn't win a war against something that was now laced into my bloodstream.

Of course there were some days that I felt like I couldn't breathe or that I was being smothered by Rachel and Blaine. And I knew that Blaine sometimes tiptoed around me, careful to not disturb the glass case that I was so obviously enclosed in, and that he was the one who suggested that I go on the medication. But I wasn't angry about it, because I knew that he only wanted the best for me, just like I only wanted the best for him. The fact that it was the drugs talking wasn't an excuse, not even _close_, because I brought up his _parents_ and I'd _thrown his love for me right back in his face_, and god, I couldn't have hit any lower if I tried.

I sat on his porch, arms wrapped around my legs, head resting on my knees. I began to cry, which only made me more disgusted with myself because why was _I _crying? I was the one who _caused_ this mess in the first place; I didn't deserve to feel pity for myself, nor did I deserve his forgiveness. I didn't know how I was supposed to face him after what I'd said, especially after everything that he'd done for me over the last year. How could I say that to him? How could I _let_ myself say that to him? I was supposed to be stronger than my illness, and now I'd allowed it to control me. Again, I'd allowed it to hurt him. I told him that I wasn't a diagnosis, but what else was I?

After about a half hour, I stood and gathered the nerve to go inside. Except my bravado was nothing but a small charcoal simmering inside my chest, telling me that if I didn't go then, I might not ever get the chance to make it up to him. I was not brave; I didn't know what courage was.

I quietly walked through the house, making my way to his bedroom and knocking lightly on the door.

"Blaine?" I called out softly, opening it.

A muffled and broken response came from under the covers. "Cooper, I really need to be alone right now. Kurt and I got into a fight and I just don't – I don't want to talk about it."

I moved carefully across the floor, not daring to breathe as I climbed onto the mattress. Was I permitted to comfort him, to touch him? To ask him to let me explain myself even though I didn't have a worthy explanation?

"Cooper, I said –" The second he peered out from beneath the blankets, he froze. His unruly hair was disheveled, his cheeks were wet, and his eyes were empty, like he was exhausted. When he looked at me, I didn't see anger. I saw resignation. Pain.

"Can we talk?" I whispered, almost desperately, meeting his gaze.

"There's nothing to say," he replied, his high voice cracking. "You said it all."

"God, Blaine, no," I told him, shaking my head fiercely while I fumbled for words. "I don't even – I couldn't stop – I didn't, I didn't _mean_ any of it. I just, the medicine took over and I tried to – to fight it but it was just so strong and I couldn't but I didn't mean any of what I said, I promise you, Blaine, I'm so sorry." I reached my hand out, gently moving it over the side of his face, boundaries be damned. His breathing hitched and lashes fluttered shut, and when he began to cry, my heart stopped. _I_ did that. It was _my_ fault he was crying.

"No, no, no," I murmured, pulling back the comforter and bringing his curled body closer to me. I wrapped my arms around him, putting my hand behind his head. "Hey, shh. No. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't know why I said it, but I shouldn't have and I was so wrong and I _didn't mean any of it_. Shh. I love you so much. I'm so sorry."

He shook his head into my neck. "You're right."

"No. I'm wrong. Look at me, Blaine." I lifted his chin to meet my eyes. I wiped his cheeks, running my hand through his hair. "I was so wrong. I had no right to throw that in your face or to say those things. The medicine just makes me so… angry and _not me_, and it takes over and I couldn't stop it. That's not what I think about you, god, it's the furthest thing from it. I think _the world of you_ and I need you to know that. It doesn't matter how much I'm hurting or what drugs I'm on, it doesn't give me the right to do what I just did. Not ever. I love you more than I've loved anyone in my entire _life_ and I don't even know how to put into words how much I wish I could take it back."

"Rachel's your friend," he said in a thick voice. "And Cooper only got me because my parents didn't want me. They're _obligated_ to love me."

"I need you to listen to me," I whispered against his temple, pressing my lips to his skin. "What I said wasn't true. That was the Prozac speaking. But that's not what I think. I think that you're the kindest, most loving soul I've ever known. You care for me so much and I know that's why you do the things you do. And I've never been angry with you for that. How could I be? You saved my life, Blaine. Over and over, you save me. Every day I wake up knowing that you're mine, that you're here when things get tough, that you're not going anywhere – that's a day that I get to live, no matter how hard it is. I'm alive because of you. I love you more than you can possibly understand, and I can't stand any of this because I know what this medicine does to me. It's like it clouds my brain and takes over my emotions, heightens them and – and magnifies them. _But that's not an excuse_, and that's why I'm sitting here with you right now," I said fervently. "And Rachel loves you for you, Blaine. Not for me. You know that. And Cooper? God, I don't think I've ever seen a brother that loves like him. Don't let what I said make you doubt that, okay? Because none of us are going anywhere, I promise."

He was quiet, his jaw clenched, eyes leaking with tears.

"Can you say something please?" I murmured into his ear. "How can I fix this? What can I do?"

"I just, I need – I need some time to think. I don't –" He stopped, shaking his head.

"Okay," I nodded, willing to go and give him some space if that's what he really wanted. "Anything you need." I made a move to get up, but he latched onto my shirt.

"Don't leave. Just – just stay with me."

So I did.

* * *

"You're allowed to be mad at me," I told him softly, after we sat in silence for what felt like hours. "You have every right to be."

"I'm not – I'm not mad, exactly," he responded with a sigh, picking absentmindedly at the comforter.

"Then what are you?"

He paused, looking away from me. "I – I'm hurt. It, what you said, I just – I never expected that. It was like I couldn't breathe, like every awful thing that anyone's every said to me was – was just _drowning_ my lungs. I don't know how to describe it, but that's what it felt like to me."

"I'm _so _sor –"

"Don't say you're sorry," he said in a small voice. "I know that. And I know that it was the medicine talking, I believe you. But you can't go throwing stuff like that in my face every time things get hard, Kurt. I mean, what happens when you get angry for real?"

"Then I'll work it out with you. I won't ever, _ever_ bring your past into it again, I swear, Blaine. I won't use your love for me as a tool to hurt you, I won't leave, I won't throw things. That's not me. I just have to learn to control myself when the Prozac wants to take over."

He nodded, looking to me for the first time in several minutes.

"I love you." I searched his eyes, leaning down to rest my forehead against his. My gaze flickered to his mouth and he moved forward to kiss me.

"Always will," he murmured against my lips, letting out a breathy sigh.

I knew we would be okay. Because I was Kurt and he was Blaine, and it wasn't going to be my words that ended us, not before my sickness did. We'd fought before and gotten past it, and this time wouldn't be different.

* * *

About two weeks later, after days of trying to get back to where we were before everything happened, I finally asked Blaine about his parents. I needed to break that final barrier between us and I needed him to know that I would love him _always_, regardless of what anyone had ever told him.

"Tell me about them?" I murmured quietly, holding his hand in mine.

He let out a shuddering breath and tilted his head up to look at me. "What do you want to know?"

"What – what happened? Why are they so…?"

"Terrible? Awful? Homophobic?" he replied snidely, and the laugh that followed was hollow. "It's anyone's guess."

"Blaine –"

"I came out and they couldn't handle it," he said shortly. "That's all there is to it."

I waited a few moments before saying, "You can tell me the truth, you know. You can trust me."

"They did some despicable things, Kurt," he whispered in a thick, angry voice, shaking his head slowly back and forth. He shut his eyes tightly and I let my hand rest on the side of his face. "They did some really… some awful things. I don't want them to take this from me, too."

"No one could ever take me from you," I told him, running my thumb over his eyelid, causing it to open. His hazel eyes looked so sad, so ashamed, and I was determined to do whatever it would take to erase the things they made him feel.

"I don't – it's going to change everything when I tell you. You won't even be able to look at me. Hell, _I_ can't even look at me." He tried to stare in the opposite direction, but I held his chin in place and forced his gaze on mine.

"Don't you dare say that," I said firmly. "Don't you dare say that to me. I _love _you, Blaine. You are not your past, or your parents, or the way you've been treated by other people. Isn't that what you've always told me?"

"You," he began quietly, unsteadily, "are much stronger than I am. My past is _me_. My parents and their actions and the things they did, they're all engraved into my brain like _stone_. I was never good enough for them, even before I came out. I tried so hard to be everything they wanted, but it was all for nothing, because then they found out, and they just –" He stopped talking, hands clenching into fists on his stomach. I uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, and held them against my palm.

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, pulling away with a quiet smack.

"What did they do, Blaine?" I asked softly.

"Nothing. It's not important. Cooper handled it."

"Come here." His eyes were shut tightly and he was breathing harder than he had been before, his jaw was set like he was trying not to cry. I sat him up and he automatically put his head under my chin, curling into me. "How did they hurt you?" My voice was quiet, knowing.

"I didn't mean for them to hear," he whispered, shaking his head. "They weren't supposed to hear."

"What weren't they supposed to hear?" My lips were at his ear, and my arms went around his waist, holding him against me.

"The truth," he exhaled brokenly, pressing himself closer to me as the tears fell from his eyes. "They weren't supposed to know the truth."

"And when they found out?" I prompted, knowing full well what was about to come out of his mouth and that he needed to finally say it out loud.

"You know," he replied, voice thick with emotion. "You know what they did to me."

"Blaine," I started softly, running my fingers through his hair. "You've never told me about what happened that night." I kissed the top of his head, tightening my arm around his back. "You need this."

"No I don't," he told me. "I've been fine."

"I told you that when we met and you didn't believe me," I murmured, resting my head on his.

"You aren't me."

"You're right, I'm not. But I do know what holding things in does to a person. You watched me go through that, and you got me past it. I'm sitting here today because of _you_. You saved my life, more than you'll ever know." I smiled sadly, looking down at him. I put my hand behind his head and guided it up so that he could see me. "I won't let you fall, Blaine. Okay? I'm here. I'm here, always."

He nodded, swallowing, and drug the back of his hand over his eyes. "I know that."

"Then can you trust me on this one?" I asked gently, searching his eyes.

"O-okay."

"Yeah?" I moved my thumbs to his cheeks, wiping the tears away. I smoothed his hair back and he nodded.

"I was fourteen when I wanted to come out," he began shakily, shifting to sit up. He took a deep breath, shut his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. I took one of his hands and ran my thumb over the top of it. "I've always been close to Cooper and from the time I was able to walk, I was attached to his hip, even with the age difference. He loved me like my dad should have, and I wanted to tell him that I was gay before I told anyone else because I knew he would love me regardless. The weight of what I couldn't say just… hung in the air. Every second of my life was torture for me, because I knew what my father would do once he found out, I _knew_ what he was capable of.

When I finally went to talk to Cooper, he told me that he had been called into the office for an emergency meeting and that he would be back as soon as he could. He gave me a hug and then I was left standing alone in my room. He had no idea. The only thing I could think about was what would happen to me once I was out, and I considered doing so many things to myself in that moment, Kurt. I walked to my door, _cutting_. I sat on my bed, _suicide_. I opened my closet door, _I'm too young to be making this decision but I'll do it because I don't have a choice. _There were so many ways I thought I could die – blood loss, suffocation, drowning, overdosing. I even could've hanged myself, or jumped out a third story window, or stepped in front of a car before it had a chance to even register my body. But that wasn't what I wanted for myself, at least not then, not at that age. After about an hour had gone by, I picked up my phone and dialed his number before I could stop myself."

He talked of death so simply, so calmly, like it was nothing more than a common thought in his head. And I suppose it was, because that's how it used to be for me.

"What did you do?" I prodded, hand playing with the curls at the base of his neck.

"I told him," he replied, laughing bitterly. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just yelled it the second he answered. I said that I needed him to come home and make everything okay and help me find a way to tell our parents because I didn't know what I was doing. I said that I couldn't live like this and that I didn't know how much more I could take, and I heard him telling his work that he had to leave before I was even finished."

"And what did he say?"

"That it would be okay," he exhaled, eyelids fluttering open slowly to reveal his sad eyes. His voice cracked and it was thick, like he was about to cry. "That he'd always known and that he loved me just as much. He told me to stay in my room and made me promise not to hurt myself, and I'd barely gotten out a response before I heard my father just… _furious_ behind me."

He stopped talking, taking his hand out of my grasp. There were tears in his eyes now and he played with his fingers nervously.

"Hey, it's okay," I whispered, prying his hands apart to hold in my own. I pulled his chin up so that I could hold his gaze. When the tears started to fall, I swiped them with my thumb and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "You can tell me."

He looked up at me and his face was absolutely heartbroken. He sniffled and started again. "The call – the call was still going, so Cooper could hear everything. He started yelling through the phone after he heard my father screaming at me, but it was useless. I sobbed as he dragged me into the living room, swearing that I would ignore the feelings and that I didn't want to have them, but he didn't care. He threw me to the ground near my mother's feet, and she refused – she wouldn't even look at me. My dad screamed that I was an abomination and he told me that I should have known better. And – and when he said, when he said he was going to sign me up for one of the – the religious camps, I – I said that I wouldn't go." His chest was heaving and he was sobbing, warm tears running off his cheeks and onto our clasped hands as he let out a raw, aching noise. "I said that I – that I would ignore my sexuality, but I couldn't – couldn't go there, I couldn't."

"Shh," I murmured, pulling my hands away and wrapping them tightly around his neck. He wound his arms around my stomach, burying his face into my shirt. "It's okay, Blaine, I'm here. Shh, I'm here." I clenched my jaw and stared at the wall in front of me, swallowing down the tightness in my throat.

"He – he hit me, Kurt, he hit me."

My heart dropped out of my body, and I tensed. He unhooked his arms, and still crying, started talking again, hysterical this time.

"He – he kept doing it, over and – and over. At first, it – it was just his – his hands, but then it was his f-feet, and I was on – on the ground, and he was kicking and I could feel things breaking and snapping, and I couldn't stop him. He was shouting t-things at – at me, but I couldn't h-hear because all I could focus on was the – the blood pounding in – in my head and the spots in front of my eyes. I was bleeding e-everywhere and then I felt him kick my side, and I screamed because I _knew_ one of my ribs c-cracked again. It was only a few weeks after I'd been in the hospital from the – the dance, so I could feel the stitches in my side pulling apart. My mom didn't – she just _sat there_, Kurt, she – she didn't do _anything_. I tried so hard to – to get him to – to stop, but he was too strong and I was in so much pain and I just – just couldn't do it. And then Cooper – he finally came home, and I just laid there while they fought," he sobbed, curling in on himself. "My mother pulled my dad off of him and then Cooper – he called 911. I thought I was going to die, Kurt, there was so much blood." His cries sounded like animal noises, inhuman, and I shut my eyes, breathing in deeply. Tears fell down my own cheeks and there's no way to describe pain I was feeling in that moment. To me, it was worse than anything I ever could have done to myself, because I knew that Blaine had absolutely no control over the things his parents did. I felt wrecked, broken – like my own heart was in an array of pieces that would never fit back together – for the boy in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to make that kind of hurt go away. Once someone is abused, it's not something they ever forget; it stays rooted deeply in their mind,

"Shh, honey, I'm here. I love you so, so much. It's okay, you're okay, it's over now. Shh, I'm here," I whispered, resting my forehead on the top of his head. He wouldn't pick himself up, so his face was on his knees, and he began to hyperventilate. "Blaine, you need to calm down. You can't breathe, honey, look at me." He didn't move, so I put my hands under his jaw. His eyes were screwed shut as he continued to sob, and his head fell onto my shoulder. "No, Blaine, look at me." He was gasping and his hands clenched my shirt tightly like it was the only thing real to him, and I knew that then, it probably was.

"I – I don't – I don't understand," he cried into my neck. "Am – Am I not w-worth loving?" He sucked in a mouthful of air and choked on it. "Do they hate me that much? Did I deserve that?"

"Blaine, look at me," I said loudly, my fingers holding his face in front of mine. "Hey, I'm right here. Breathe. Honey, you need to calm down. Focus on me, okay? Breathe. Listen to my voice. It's okay, it's over now. It's over. I love you. I love you, don't you ever say those things about yourself."

He was taking deep, even breaths, and though they were interrupted by sobs, he was able to calm down some. I pulled him against me, one hand across his body and the other on the back of his head. I pressed kisses to his temples, rocking us back and forth.

"Shh, I've got you," I murmured. "I've got you, honey. I won't ever let them hurt you again, okay? Shh, it's over."

"I – I just – everybody always leaves – leaves me or hurts me, you know?"

"Breathe, honey," I told him, rubbing circles into his side. "You don't deserve any of it, I promise you, Blaine. You deserve so much better."

Blaine did as I asked, breathing through his mouth as he continued to cry. "Promise me," he choked out, hand tightening in my shirt. "Promise me that you'll never leave."

"Shh, you're okay," I said into his ear. "I won't leave you, Blaine, I promise. You won't lose me. I'm not ever saying goodbye to you."

* * *

He ended up crying himself to sleep on my chest and slept through the morning. When he finally woke the next afternoon, he wouldn't even look at me because he was so embarrassed. I just took his hand, pulled him off the couch, and brought him to my bed, sticking in his favorite Disney movie. He laid his head on my stomach, tangling his fingers with mine while my other hand was in his hair, playing with his curls.

"I love you," he told me.

"Always will."

He reached up and kissed my jaw, scooting closer to me than he already was. "Thank you for last night," he whispered after a moment. And that was the last we spoke of it.

He was happier after that. The next day, everything was forgotten and he was back to laughing and smiling and being himself. The rest of November and December passed without any hitches. We were both feeling good, there was no more crying (unless we were watching The Notebook, of course), and I didn't slip up and hurt myself. We were finally able to just enjoy each other, in every way possible. Our relationship changed for the better, and we were able to be normal teenagers in love – no blood, cutting, or demons whispering in our ears. It was just us and our love, and it was a wonderful feeling.

We were young, but it wasn't just a silly high-school romance for us.

* * *

**November, 2011 – Blaine**

I sat at my piano, pulling Kurt close to my side. He wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder as he smiled at me.

"What's this for?" he asked softly.

"I just – I have something I wanna say. I wrote this a few weeks ago, after our fight, and –"

"I'm sorry," he told me, and I could feel his body tense as the memories of nasty words and aching hearts ran through his mind.

"I don't want you to apologize anymore, Kurt. And I think this song will tell you why, okay? So just…. just listen because I mean every word of it."

_When you coming home?_  
_It's the quiet in the night_  
_That makes my mind make noises and guessing second times_  
_Tell me that you're mine_  
_Say it one more time_

_I'm ready to lose everything but you_  
_I'm ready to lose everything but you_  
_Everything_  
_Everything_

_It's the heart in you_  
_I know it in my bones_  
_That made me change direction when I thought better off alone_  
_Say it one more time_  
_Tell me you are mine_

_I'm ready to lose everything but you_  
_I'm ready to lose everything but you_  
_Everything_

_Tell me that you're mine_  
_Say it one more time_  
_Tell me that you're mine_  
_Say it one more time_  
_Tell me that you're mine_  
_Say it one more time_  
_Say it one more time_  
_Tell me that you're mine_

_I'm ready to lose everything but you_  
_I'm ready to lose everything but you_  
_Everything_  
_Everything_

_Say it one more time_  
_Say it one more time_

I let my hand quietly play out the final few notes, taking a deep breath and looking to Kurt. Tears were gathering in the corners of his eyes, a few rolling down his cheeks, and he bit his lip and shook his head. He met my gaze, wiping them away.

"I'm in this with you," I murmured, searching his face. "Okay? I'm with you. For the long haul. I'll help you through everything and I'll be here for you until our sun burns out and fades away and I'll teach you that goodness can exist, because I love you and I won't lose you. Not to your sickness, not to the things my parents told me, not ever. We both have so much to heal from and no matter how much better we get, we're always going to have these scars. It's goddamn near impossible, but I'm willing to try. I'm willing to risk everything I have to for just a _shot_ at being able to love you forever because that's all I want. I want you to be mine. I know we're young and that's why it's gonna be so hard. We fight and we're a disaster and we're so messed up from what we've been through, but love isn't supposed to be easy, right?" I let out a watery laugh, reaching my hand up to hold Kurt's jaw. He was crying now, chest heaving as he gripped my fingers on his lap. "I know in my bones that you saved me. Cooper was there for me and he got me away from them and he saved my life, but you were the one that made me think twice about picking up the blade. You were the one that saved my soul. And you can stop apologizing, okay? It's over. We got through it and we can move past it, and I'm sure it won't be the last fight we ever have, but we'll get through that, too. I can risk my happiness and my future and this home that we've built for ourselves to be able to grow and love each other more than I do now. I just – I love you. Okay? I just love you and that's the end of everything for me."

"Goddammit, Blaine," he whispered, curling his hand around my neck and pulling me in for a hard, desperate kiss. He rested his forehead against mine, letting out a trembling sigh. "Why are you so good to me? I don't deserve it."

"You think I deserve this relationship either? I'm just as fucked up as you are, Kurt," I told him, laughing sadly while unshed tears burned in my eyes. "We're both a train wreck, I don't know how this ever worked out. We're so lucky."

"Walking catastrophes," he agreed. "But it worked because we love each other enough to stay. Because we know that we'll always be here for each other, even when we're being a pain in the ass. Even when our demons come back."

"Yeah?" I murmured, looking into his gaze.

"Mh-hm." He nodded, his hand tracing the curve of my ear, roaming over my shoulder, down my back. "And I love you and it's the _beginning_ of everything for me, not the end."

"So where does our story start then? Here?" I smiled against his temple.

"No," he replied. "But it certainly doesn't end here."

"Compromise?" I asked, holding up my pinky.

"Compromise."

He linked his pinky in mine, and then I turned him around so I could hook my chin over his shoulder and pull him close to my chest.

* * *

**December 28****th****, 2011 – Kurt**

As I attempted to drag Blaine down the stairs to my bedroom, my father poked his head out from the top of the landing.

"Do whatever you want, but just know that you'll have to look me in the eyes tomorrow after you do it," he said, focusing his gaze on Blaine.

"Okay, Dad," I mumbled, my eyes wide, and when he left I buried my face in my hands. "Oh my God."

"He wants to kill me, Kurt. He knows I de-flowered you and now you're going to start the New Year with a dead boyfriend," Blaine said with a laugh.

"It's like he _knows_," I told him, and then raised my eyebrows. "De-flowered? No one says that anymore."

"I just did," he said, flashing me a bright smile. "And besides, that was _months_ ago. July seventeenth, to be exact. And if today is December twenty-eighth, that gives us… one-hundred and sixty-four days in which we could have slept together. And we had sex _at least_ a third of those days. So I have de-flowered you approximately fifty-four times.

"I should be super turned on at the fact that you just did all of that math in your head because you're ridiculously smart, but you just recited the date of the first time we had sex. And then proceeded to count how many days that would have given us to sleep together."

"Oh, like you didn't know," Blaine retorted, rolling his eyes. "I think it's romantic."

"I swear you could pass for straight, Blaine."

"…Thanks?"

"This is the type of thing straight boys do all day long. I heard Finn the other day counting, too."

"How high did he get?"

"Two," I snorted.

"I don't see your dad all over _him_."

"That's because it's Carole's job. It's like a mission with her. She's always asking if he's being safe or if he 'needs anything'."

"At least she's giving him permission. She's not going to kill Rachel, but _he's_ ready to kill me. That's totally not fair," he pouted.

"One," I began, leaning against the wall, "it's awkward. I would _so_ not want my dad asking me if I need condoms. Two, she only gives him permission because she knows nothing ever happens. If he knew I had sex more than him, he would flip. And three, if my dad knew what we were on our way to do, he'd throw you out to the wolves."

"We have sex almost every night I sleep over and he never notices at breakfast. Cooper does, though. He'll give me this look after you leave."

"Oh, he _knows_, Blaine. We aren't exactly quiet about it."

"Well if _someone_ wouldn't be so loud, there wouldn't be a problem, now would there?"

"Excuse me, who nearly woke up half of Lima last night?"

"You are completely to blame for that. If you weren't so attractive and good with your lips, it wouldn't be so hard for me. No pun intended," he laughed.

I narrowed my eyes. "You get your sexual frustrations out on an almost-daily basis as of recently. You should know how to control yourself."

"Your. Fault."

"You're such a _boy_, Blaine."

"Isn't that the point?"

"Shut up." I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him close to me. I pressed my lips to his, giggling when he pushed me further into the wall.

"We can do it right now, on these stairs, and then I'll march out there and stare him down." He trailed his mouth on the side of my jaw and then moved to my neck.

"Then what?"

"I say goodbye to you and don't ever step foot in this house again."

I laughed loudly, throwing my head back. He used his fingers to pull my chin down, and I smiled into the kiss.

"Blaine, have you seen the baseball bat?" I heard my dad call down the stairs. "I think you had it last."

He pulled away, yelling, "Yeah, it's in the garage!"

"Then you'd better not make it fifty-five if you want it to stay there!"

"Oh. My. God." My face went pale as I pulled away, and then I smacked Blaine on the arm.

"Ouch! That is abuse!"

"This is your fault!"

"How is this _my_ fault?" he exclaimed. "He was the one listening!"

"You counted the number of times we slept together! Out loud!"

"You admitted that we were on our way to have sex," he countered, narrowing his eyes at me. "Out loud."

"I'm his son, he can't kill me! He can do whatever he wants to you!"

"I think my counting was off, anyways. We're way past fifty-four," he grinned. "Because twenty of those times _alone_ were in December. And if you hadn't gotten sick, then there would've been a full twenty-eight." He snickered, waggling his eyebrows at me.

"Are you kidding me? What is _wrong _with you?"

"I am just an over-eager teenage boy who would like to go make love to his very attractive boyfriend."

"If you even think about it, Blaine, I will not hesitate!" my dad shouted.

I slapped a palm to my forehead, shaking my head. I pushed him down the steps and towards my room. "Go."

"Don't worry, Dad. We'll be perfect angels," I called up, rolling my eyes.

I closed my door, letting out a frustrated groan when I sat on the bed.

"Oh my God, he won't hesitate to do _what_?"

"He didn't even _specify_ and you're already freaking out. I think the day that you can sleep with me and then look my father in the eye is the day you'll finally grow up."

"Do you want me to _die_? We'll be thirty and visit with our kids and he'll _still_ give us looks when we come down here to sleep."

"It's what all parents do," I told him, flopping backwards. Blaine crawled over and laid heavily on top of me. "You really need to lay off the Doritos, honey."

"I didn't see you complaining last night."

"That's because _I_ was on top of _you_." He put his hands on my chest and rested his chin on them, blinking up at me sweetly. "What, Blaine?" I said, trying to feign annoyance but failing miserably and smiling instead.

"Kiss me."

I rolled my eyes fondly, craning my neck to peck his lips. I tried to pull away, but he held me in place, moving his mouth to my neck.

"No," I said firmly. "Now it's weird. This is not happening." I shivered when he ran his hands down my side and pulled up my shirt. I slapped his fingers away but continued to kiss him.

"Hey, he didn't tell you to keep the door open," he mumbled into my lips. "That must mean he's giving us his blessing."

"No, this is a test," I said, kissing him back. "He'll be sitting on the stairs all night with the bat and a flashlight."

"This is one test I am very okay with failing."

"You fail this test, Anderson, and you don't marry my son in fifteen years," I heard my dad say through the door.

"Oh my God, Dad!" Blaine's forehead dropped onto my chest and I let my head fall back onto my pillows. "We are _so_ not on this level!"

"Well now we are!" he called cheerfully. "Crisis number fifty-five: averted."

"Is he kidding right now?" Blaine said miserably. "Does he want me to explode?

"No, he wants me to die of embarrassment first and _then_ he wants you to explode."

"Can someone die from a _lack of sex_?" he whined.

"I don't think it's classified as a 'lack' if it's been less than twenty-four hours, babe." I kissed his cheek and then rolled over.

"Hey, you _chose_ me. You have no one to blame but yourself."

"You were a perfect gentleman when I met you! How was I supposed to know that you'd turn into the horniest teenager alive?" I said in disbelief.

"I hid my true self from you to get what I want. Muah-ha-ha!"

"You are five years old, Blaine, I swear." I moved so that I was under the covers, and when he followed, I pointed to the light switch. "Nu-uh. Go turn off the light."

"Jerk," he muttered.

"You know," I began teasingly, "we so could have gotten away with some under-the-cover action, but now I'm reconsidering my offer."

He flipped the light off and jumped into to the bed. He peppered kisses all over my face, hands framing my cheeks.

"You're beautiful and funny and smart and I love you so very much, but I will love you even more if you do _that_."

I laughed loudly, smacking him in the chest.

"Again with the hitting," he said, pulling away and throwing his hands out.

"You are incorrigible, Blaine Anderson."

"And you are very talented with your hands. Or better, your _lips," _he told me suggestively, winking.

I stared at him for a second, face unmoving.

"Pleeeeeease? I promise I'll be quiet." He bounced, looking at me with puppy dog eyes.

"Fine," I huffed, putting a hand out when he threw a fist in the air. "But you have to do me first. If you scream and wake him up and he comes down and kills you, at least I'll have gotten mine."

"You're awful."

"It's your decision."

"Deal."

* * *

**January, 2012 – Blaine**

"Let's go lay in the road," Kurt said suddenly from his position on my lap. He grabbed the remote and paused _The Notebook_. "I'm feeling adventurous."

"You sure it isn't just Noah-and-Allie fever?" I told him jokingly, laughing.

"Ha ha," he shot back dryly before huffing and setting his arms and chin on my chest. "Come onnn."

"Kurt, we'll get killed and then there will be no one left to commemorate this movie. Also, it's freezing."

"Fine, then can we at least go in the backyard and look at the stars?" he asked, sticking his lip out in a fake pout.

"That is very acceptable," I nodded, and then patted his back to get him to move. We got dressed and then I grabbed a stack of blankets and took his hand as we went to the back porch. We walked to the middle of the yard, our booted feet leaving prints in the snow, as we spread the blankets on the ground and laid on our backs. He put his head on my chest and I pulled him against me, covering us with a comforter. His fingers were tangled with mine and I could feel his heartbeat in his chest, counting the silence. We looked up at the night sky filled with the light of a million stars – billions and billions of them, all floating and illuminated above our heads – and I remembered the day that Kurt told me that he would always love me.

_ "'__I want all of you, forever, everyday_,'" I recited, smiling as I murmured into Kurt's ear, running my thumb over the back of his hand.

"'_You are, and always have been, my dream_,'" he told me, picking his head up to look at me, and my smile grew. He'd caught on to my game.

"'_The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that's what you've given me_,'" I said, nodding over-dramatically, giggling at our silliness. He tilted his head so that I was able to kiss him. I pressed our lips together, and when I pulled away, Kurt's sparkling blue-green eyes were staring into mine. "'_That's what I hope to give to you forever. I love you_.'"

"'_If you're a bird, I'm a bird_.'" He adjusted himself so that his stomach was flat against mine, and I moved my arms to hold him in place. He placed his hand on the side of my face, eyes flitting up to look at me, and then kissed me again. "I would be anything for you, you know."

"I know." I ran my knuckles softly along his cheek, brushing hair out of his forehead. "Me too."

He put his head back down on my chest, quiet for a few more minutes. And then, suddenly, he looked at me and he was just…beautiful. So, so beautiful. He went for my lips as I went for his, and his hands framed my face and mine lined the curve of his back, holding him against my body. Our mouths met, and it felt like home.

"'_I love you_,'" I whispered in his ear, pulling away and lacing our fingers together on the grass above our heads. No longer was I reciting a cheesy line from a movie. Now, I felt the words all the way throughout my veins, thrumming with love and desire and meaning. "'_I am who I am because of you. You are every reason, every hope, and every dream I've ever had, and no matter what happens to us in the future, everyday we are together is the greatest day of my life. I will always be yours. And, my darling, you will always be mine_.'"

"Promise me," he murmured breathlessly, his wild eyes searching mine. "Promise me this is forever."

"I promise," I replied fiercely, pulling him down to me and kissing him hard.

And then somehow we made it back into my bedroom and we showed each other in a hundred different ways how much we loved each other, with lips and words and hands, and we both felt _free_. The moonlight was shining in through the window and the constellations were proof that we were right where we were supposed to be, with each other. I wanted nothing to change, ever, and I wanted to lie there with him for my entire life, melting into one being as we recreated ourselves over and over again.

I loved Kurt in that moment more than I probably ever had, and neither of us knew why it felt so special. It was like the first time we made love, slow and gentle and absolutely breathtaking, and I knew that there would never be another one for me. Kurt was _it_, in the way that my legs were my legs and in the way that the grass was green. It was something that would never go away, because my love for him was infinite and unbounded.

To me, it felt like a new beginning.

But to Kurt, maybe it felt like an end.

When someone unstable has a good day, it's just a Good Day. And then they have a Bad Day, and then eventually another good one and it's a vicious and endless cycle of nothing more than good and bad. There can never be too many of the same in a row, so you wait because you know they always balance each other out. And then you have a day together, a really special day, and you know in your heart that it'll all be okay, everything will work out because that's what _happens_ when you love someone. You don't know when the next Really Bad Day will come or when the next breakdown will hit, but you don't care because all that matters is you and that person. Everything feels normal, like it's supposed to, and you let yourself imagine your life with him and what it would be like to love him forever. And you're so happy, happier than you've ever been, because now your future together doesn't seem so hazy.

But then someone tugs on a rope and the walls collapse and you realize that all around you is nothing but destruction and lies and imaginary happiness – something that you made up for a few months to tell yourself that everything would end up okay. Suddenly, all you can do is sit idly by as he tears himself apart, piece by piece, cut by cut. Because he won't let him help you and you can't fight that.

He'd promised me that he would never leave and I'd promised him that we were forever, but as it turned out, we were both liars.

* * *

**Thank you to everyone who's reading or commenting because it means more to me than you'll ever know. (I even added a few scenes in here after reading some of what a few of you had to say, so your input is being taken into account!) Also, if you care at all, I had a few mishaps with the numbering of the chapters, but we're on track now!**

**ps – did you count all the Notebook references in this chapter? ;)**


	5. Chapter 3

**A/N: There's not much to say for this chapter! I'm afraid it all goes downhill from here for a while, so be prepared. Again, I hope you enjoy it and I hope I did the situation justice!**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: Mentions of depression and suicide/attempted suicide.**

* * *

**Chapter 3 –**** Collateral Damage**

_(Kurt &amp; Blaine, March 2012 – June 2012)_

* * *

"_**Love doesn't break easily, I found. But people do." – **_**Amy Garvey, Cold Kiss**

* * *

**Kurt**

Sometime around March, everything changed. I don't remember a specific day where I woke up and decided that I didn't want help anymore, nor can I pinpoint exactly when I stopped taking my medication; everything happened at different times, realized slowly and painfully over the span of several days but really something I had to have known all along. It simply became clear to me that I couldn't do this to Blaine any longer – I couldn't let his life revolve around my sickness even when I was doing better, or the scars on my arms that would never heal, or our future together when I wasn't even sure I would last that long. He shouldn't have to be terrified of me relapsing or hurting myself and being left alone if I was gone. It wasn't fair to him and it wasn't fair to me to have to carry that pressure around, either.

I had four months. Four absolutely, wonderfully, completely good months with him. I was happy and I was normal and I got the chance to let myself imagine what it would feel like to live like that forever. I laughed when he took me to the park and spun me around and then flung his arms out and told me to marry him someday because he couldn't see how life got any better than it did in that moment. _I'm drunk on you_, he said, with a grin and a sloppy kiss and barely-contained joy thrumming through his veins that he passed on to me after he told me to just _enjoy tonight_. I joked about our future together, about New York and our children; promised to always live across from Rachel because I knew she'd never let us go far; told Blaine that yes, we could have chocolate cake at our wedding, but no, we couldn't have doves. I hid my face in my hands and smiled when he dramatically mouthed the words to _The Notebook_ and let myself focus on nothing but the intimate pleasure when we made love because being with him was just so _easy_. We were young, so incredibly young, still in high school and barely away from our demons, but none of that mattered. We fought and we made up and then we fought again, but we always came back to each other. When we were low, we were bleeding and broken and buried so deep in our sadness that we couldn't see the light, but when we were good? We _soared_. We were silly and we were dreamers and we thought of ludicrous plans for Someday because we knew not to take a single moment for granted since it could all be gone in an instant.

And eventually, that day came.

I woke up one morning and Blaine was crying in the bed next to me. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were red like he'd been up for a while, and when I asked him what was wrong, he just shook his head and held his arms out. I sat up and he wrapped them around me tighter than he had in a while, shaking and letting out wet sobs in between coughs. I was terrified because we'd both been _good_, we'd been okay, we'd gotten through the worst, hadn't we? I didn't know why he was crying – if it was because of his father or if he'd cut himself or if he'd had a nightmare about Sadie Hawkins again. I hugged him back and murmured into his ear until he'd finally composed himself enough to tell me what had happened.

And I wasn't prepared – I never would have been – for what he said.

"There was this – I was reading this article," he began quietly, not meeting my gaze. He was sitting cross-legged in front of me, our hands clasped in the middle. "It – it was about a sixteen year old boy from Indiana who committed suicide after being bullied because he was gay. And I just… it made me think of you, and how close you were to being that boy. What if he'd had someone to help him? What if somebody had noticed – would he still be alive? Or what if you'd never stopped me at Dalton or if I hadn't kept pushing, would you be with me right now? Breathing and living?" He stopped, took in a shaky breath. When he finally looked at me, there were tears shining in his eyes. "It scares the shit out of me, Kurt. Thinking about what could've happened to you, or even to me, if we hadn't found each other. If we hadn't gotten better. And I've spent so long pushing it out of my mind because I just can't – I can't think about that, it's too scary, and I was too busy trying to help you and then you were starting to get better so I didn't _have_ to think about it. But we're fine now, and I have time to stop and breathe and imagine my life with you… or without you. And I'm just so glad that you're okay, Kurt," he choked out, the words a pained exhale, tears slipping down his cheeks. He reached his fingers up and ran them over my face before dropping them into my lap and clutching my hand again. He rested his forehead against mine. "I don't know what I would've done if you had been him. I couldn't have lived through something like that."

And then, as his words sunk into my brain like icy water working its way through my veins, I realized what was happening: it was all catching up to him. Three months later, at five am after a night filled with dinner and _The Notebook_ and giggles as we'd climbed the stairs, already trying to get our clothes off. We had been perfectly perfect, enjoying the house to ourselves and trying new recipes and finding more ways to show our love to each other. He laughed as he chased me around the house with a can of whipped cream; smiled that nose-crinkling smile when Noah told Allie that he wanted her forever; held me close and loved me until we'd both fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs somewhere around midnight. Things had been so… normal. There was no reason for him to ever let those thoughts cross his mind, not for a second, not after the day we'd had together, because they hadn't even crossed _my_ mind.

I mean it when I say I was really, absolutely happy at that point in time. But I also mean it when I say that what he said was a wake-up call for me, a warning of sorts. _What happens when you relapse? _nagged at the back of my brain, consumed me each time I took a step or kissed Blaine or turned on the tap to take a shower. I knew how this all worked; I was smarter than to believe that that was where our love story ended, with us having made it through a year and a half of hell and then riding off into the New York sunset. I wasn't naïve. It was always up and down, an ever-constant stream of happiness and sorrow, like the ebb and flow of a tide. It was never that easy.

I had depression. I was battling a mental disorder and a chemical imbalance in my brain. That hadn't changed simply because I had Blaine or went on medication. While things had been so much better than they ever had been before, it could still be years before my illness was completely gone. That's the cold-hard truth with situations like mine, and Blaine had been so relieved that we'd both gotten out alive, that we'd made it through all the hurt and the grief intact. But that wasn't true, was it? Because we'd both lost a lot of things – innocence and clean, unmarked bodies, parts of ourselves that we'd never be able to get back. I'd lost my mother to cancer and nearly my father to it, too; Blaine had lost his parents to ignorance and bigotry. We may have loved each other deeply and with a ferocity that people our age would never understand, but there was a reason for it: we knew what it was like to lose that love, to feel like no person in the world would notice if we just decided to not wake up one day. Passion comes from pain, and it isn't without risk. I risked Blaine shutting me out and bottling up his emotions until they came seeping out of him, in choking sobs and drenched in red. He risked me going to bed with a smile on my face and waking up with new scars on my arms and not enough energy to get through the day, because my depression could always, always come back.

And if all it took was one article for Blaine to fall apart, what would he do when I inevitably reverted back to my old habits? I knew it was only a matter of time before our picture perfect daydream turned into a nightmare. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I was waiting for something to happen. For something to trigger me or cause a setback in my progress or a bump in our relationship. And that was it.

_ I couldn't have lived through something like that_, he'd said. But I knew there would come a time when he would have to get re-used to me slipping into bouts of silence because I had no desire to speak, or me screaming because I couldn't stand taking the Zoloft, or cleaning up the blood from my arms because that was the only way I knew how to make the hurt go away. It was going to come back and he wasn't going to be ready for it. It was that simple.

So I made the decision, quietly, maybe even subconsciously, to just… stop it all. End the charade that we'd been living for the past few months. In a way, I forced myself to give everything up, the happiness and the perfect nights and the healing scars on my wrists. I traded it for dumping my pills down the sink, pulling away from Blaine, tracing patterns against the backdrop of pale white skin like I'd longed to do for so long. I had to prevent it from hitting him unexpectedly, so I waded in slowly, deeper and deeper into the waters until I forgot how to swim back to shore.

I don't even think I knew I was going to leave him until I did it. But we were nothing but collateral damage, weren't we? Because we weren't supposed to fall in love, and my depression didn't care that we had. My brain didn't realize that I loved him more than anyone I could ever fathom loving or that he would have stayed with me regardless of how sick or damaged I was. It too was clouded with fear and chemicals and thoughts of protecting him, saving him.

I did what I had to do at the time. That's the only way I can justify it.

* * *

**March 21****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_Something's… off about Kurt. I'm not sure what it is, but I have a feeling that he might be relapsing. In the past few weeks, he's been quieter, he doesn't want me over as much, and it looks like he's losing weight. Every time I see him curled up on the couch, staring at the tv but not really watching it, I'm reminded of that small, withdrawn boy that I found on the Dalton Academy stairs. He's so hesitant and jumpy and he doesn't want me touching him, and that's how he was when we first met. It scares me, it really does, and I need him to come and talk to me before I try and approach the subject. I've tried asking if he's okay, but he brushes it off like it's nothing and I know that's not true. I wish there was a way to find out if he's taking his pill without him getting upset, but there isn't. If I have to sit down and talk to him, it won't be pretty and he'll get defensive and angry. I don't want that, but something's wrong. I can feel it._

_Usually I'm just over thinking things and he just had a bad day and then everything's fine, but it's been two weeks, and at this point even Burt's noticed it. Rachel's concerned, too; he hasn't come to her, which is what he'll usually do when he's too embarrassed to come to me. So if something is bothering him, and he isn't talking to __any__ of us, it means that he's bottling up his feelings and that never leads anywhere good._

_I really hope I'm over-reacting. He was doing so well. __We__ were doing so well. We've had almost five wonderful months with no problems, and this issue has come on so suddenly and I have no idea what could have triggered it. I'm really scared. I need him to be okay._

* * *

**April 24****th****, 2012 – Kurt**

"Did I do something wrong?"

I stopped what I was doing, the weight of Blaine's words, said thickly through the phone with confusion and tears, settled heavy in my heart. I chose my response carefully, knowing full well that I was lying. I knew _exactly_ what Blaine was trying to say. "What – what do you mean?"

"Kurt..."

The way he said my name, with so much pain in his voice, caused me to shut my eyes and breathe deeply. I didn't want to do this, but I didn't have a choice. "Blaine," I huffed, sighing in such a way that implied I was frustrated.

"Don't do this," he pleaded. "Stop trying to fight with me."

"I'm not."

"But you are! I don't want to fight with you, Kurt. Please just tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

"You didn't do anything."

"Kurt." I knew that Blaine wouldn't give in, not this time, so I tried harder.

"What?" I snapped harshly, doing everything I could to get him to leave me alone. "I'm fine. Just drop it."

"You're upset."

"Clearly. And only because you think I'm mad at you, and I wasn't until about sixty seconds ago."

"You're deflecting. You're getting snarky and impatient and you only do that to push people out. Don't turn this around on me. I know that something's _wrong_, Kurt."

"Nothing's wrong!" I yelled, irritated that Blaine kept going. "I'm fine! God, just leave me alone! Why can't you do that? Just because I'm annoyed doesn't mean that I'm fucking relapsing, okay?"

I heard a sniffle on the other end and immediately, I regretted shouting at him. I pulled my arm tight around myself, letting the guilt drop into my stomach. My nails instinctively dug into my arm, where two sets of fresh, red marks sat, created not even twenty minutes previously.

I never wanted to make Blaine cry.

Moments passed in silence and I breathed steadily through the phone, throat tightening as Blaine tried to regain his voice. My cuts began to bleed again.

"Do you need to go back to the doctor, Kurt?" His words were quiet, knowing.

"No," I said, automatically defensive.

"It's okay if you do, you know. Maybe they can up your dosage or – or switch you to something else…"

I began to panic, my fingers clawing harder, and I winced in pain. I controlled my words as my thumb slowly spread the blood around on my skin. "I don't need to have my medication adjusted. I'm fine."

"You're pulling away from me," Blaine told me, sniffling again. "You aren't fine. I'm really worried, Kurt."

"I'm not pulling away from you." I brushed off the comment and tried to ignore the sound of Blaine's tears, but I couldn't.

The cuts on my arm were burning like fire, but my arm felt numb as the blood continued to slide down it, leaving behind orange, rusty trails. My gaze was firmly planted on the wall in front of me as my heart stuttered heavily in my chest and moisture gathered in the corners of my eyes. I knew what I was about to hear and it hurt a hundred times more than any mark that could be made from a blade.

"You haven't kissed me, _really_ kissed me, in a week. You say you're busy with homework when I ask to come over and I know for a fact that's not true because I asked Rachel. You're – you're quiet and you don't eat at lunch anymore and you're wearing jackets when it's ninety degrees out. I'm noticing, Kurt. It's getting bad again, isn't it?"

Tears rolled down my cheeks, sudden, hot, and shameful. I knew that I'd been too obvious, but I just didn't know what to do anymore. I'd known this was going to be hard, but I didn't think it would be _this_ hard. Was there really an easy way to let someone go?

"I'm sorry," I gasped out, inadvertently confessing. I heard him breathe out a shaky sigh.

"No, honey, don't cry," Blaine said, and I knew that he was wiping his cheeks and sitting up in his bed. "Don't cry, it's alright. Just tell me what's wrong so I can help, okay?"

"I can't," I cried, shaking my head as the tears make their way down my face, and my fingers gripped my forearm. I let out a silent, painful noise, squeezing my eyes shut as my wounds burned. But it felt good. If I was hurting myself, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad when I hurt Blaine.  
"Kurt, yes you can. You can tell me anything, you know that. Please just tell me what's going on, sweetheart. I know you better than that."

I didn't say anything. I continued to cry softly into the phone and it felt like there was something stuck in my chest, pounding on my rib cage and pulling apart my skin, leaving nothing behind but a stuttering, tired heart.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, panic-stricken after I choked in a breath.

"No," I said, crying harder because I hated lying to him.

_It's too late. I already did it._

"I'll be fine, okay? It's just – it's been a rough week," I told him through my tears. I bit down on my hand after a minute to quiet myself because I knew I was going to have to convince him to not come over.  
_  
I won't be fine._

"Kurt – "

"Please, Blaine. I just – I need to calm down."

_ I need _you.

"There's something you aren't telling me."

_There is.  
_  
"No there isn't."

_ Why can't I just tell him the truth?_

"Have you eaten today?" Blaine asked.

"I ate dinner," I said quietly, weakly. And I wasn't lying – I really did eat it. I just may have not digested it. I saw my dad crush up some of my medication and mix it in, and I refused to take those goddamn pills.

"Good, that's good, Kurt."

_ Why can't you notice?_

I swallowed and my throat burned with the sting of acid.

"I'm trying," I told Blaine as another batch of tears leaked from my eyes. "I'm trying so hard."

"I know you are, honey, I know."

* * *

**April 24****th****, 2012 - Blaine**

I could tell something was wrong the second Kurt answered the phone. I knew the way he breathed through his nose and the way his voice sounded when he cuts; I'd long grown used to it. I knew exactly what I was walking into, what I was going to find, when I hung up and threw myself into my car and sped to his house.

But still, nothing prepared me for the reality of his situation. His depression was back (did it ever even really leave?) and it had been for weeks and weeks now. He was spiraling again, falling into the trap of blades and pushing people away and suffering in silence. He may have promised me that he would come to me when he felt the urge, but I knew better than that. I knew how depression worked. Promises and love and pictures of the future mean nothing when everything in your body aches and your brain tells you how to fix it.

When I stumbled into his room, my heart stuttered in my chest and a hand flew to my mouth. He was sitting on his bed, a thin razor between his fingers, pressing down tightly on his skin. Just because I had been expecting it didn't make it any easier.

"Kurt, stop!" I choked out, instinctively lunging toward his bed. His eyes went wide and I watched as all the breath left his body at once – he hadn't been expecting me. He dropped the blade in shock, shaking his head back and forth while his chest heaved for air. I immediately grabbed it, throwing it onto his desk, and then put my arm around his back quickly. "Come on, honey, we have to clean your arm."

"I –"

"Kurt, you're dripping onto your bed," I told him urgently, pulling his waist towards me and helping him stand.

I moved into the bathroom, sitting him down on the side of his tub. I turned the cold tap on, leaving him under it for a second while I rifled through his cupboards for what I needed. I turned around and put the items on the counter, kneeling beside him with a damp rag. His head was down and refused to look at me, but I could see that the tears were steadily dripping off of his nose and down into his lap.

"Breathe, Kurt."

"I'm so sorry," he exhaled, covering his mouth with his shaking hand. His fingers curled around the back of my shirt, drawing me to him, and he buried his face in my neck, clutching me.

"Shh," I whispered. I set the washcloth down and enveloped him in my arms, holding him tightly. I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "I'm not mad, okay? I'm not mad."

"I didn't mean to do it. I just – I couldn't –"

"I know," I told him quietly. "We can talk about it later, yeah?" I pulled away, running my hands over the side of his face. I kissed his forehead and then carefully picked up his arm again. I pressed as tenderly as I possibly could, but I could still feel the pulse of his heartbeat in his wrist, reminding me to never take it for granted again. I poured peroxide onto the cuts and then added some Neosporin before bandaging his skin with gauze. After I was finished, I went to go find a new shirt for him to wear, and he hesitated when I came back.

I knew exactly what I was going to see. There wasn't a reason to pretend anymore; I knew this wasn't just an unfortunate string of a few bad days. This was another phase – something had happened to trigger him and now we had to fix it. But when he raised his arms and the bloodied t-shirt came off, I couldn't help the gasp that slipped past my clenched teeth.

Kurt's pale skin was sunken in and so, so marked. It looked like he hadn't eaten in a week and there were new scars running under his ribcage, some older and some not even scabbed over yet. I didn't say anything, just held back my tears as I kissed Kurt's shoulder and put the new shirt on over his head.

I took his fingers and led him back out into his room, climbing onto the mattress. I pulled him tight against my chest and leaned against the headboard, hooking my chin over his shoulder and tangling our hands together gently on his stomach. For a long while, neither of us spoke. The only thing that let me know that Kurt was still awake was the hand that periodically clenched together, drawing out more blood. When I felt his fist moving, I uncurled it and held it against my heart.

"You didn't eat, did you?" I asked quietly, even though I already knew the answer. Burt told me that he'd been crushing the pills into his food for the last few days after he caught Kurt dumping them down the sink; he must've known.

I felt Kurt shake his head against my chest, and then he started to cry, so I just held him tighter and murmured into his ear.

"Shh, it's going to be alright. I'm here, okay? I'm here. Shh." I rocked him slowly back and forth, pressing kisses to his hair.

"I'm sorry," Kurt managed to choke out. "I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't you just tell me, Kurt?" I asked, my voice cracking. "You could have come to me, god, you know that."

"I didn't know how," he cried, shaking his head as he gasped out broken words. "I just – you thought – we were doing so good. I didn't know – what to – to say – and – and I didn't – " He stopped, a sob breaking out from his gritted teeth. "It hurts, Blaine, it hurts, make it stop, please make it stop. I can't – I can't take it anymore."

"Shh," I murmured against his head. I laid down and tugged Kurt flat against me, one arm underneath his body and the other holding our hands together. I threw my leg over his and hooked my chin over his shoulder. I was so close to him that I could feel each stuttered heartbeat inside of his chest and I physically _ached _with the pain that he was feeling. "It's okay, I'm here, shh. I'm here. I'm here, I love you. I love you. You're okay."

He was falling apart in my arms, unraveling and bleeding and so utterly and completely in pieces, and there was nothing I could do. I could hold him and bandage him up and tell him that I loved him, but he was still sick and I couldn't make that go away. Because I wasn't the cure for depression, and I wasn't the cure for self-harm. I was foolish to think that everything would be fine; a few months of things being better didn't erase his past or his diagnosis.

That was just simply and unfortunately how those things worked.

* * *

**May 11****th****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

"_There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me." – Jonathan Safran Foer_

* * *

**May 20****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

"_I wanted to touch him, to tell him that even if everyone left everyone, I would never leave him… his words fell through him, trying to find the floor to his sadness." – Jonathan Safran Foer_

* * *

**May 29****th****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

_I graduated yesterday. I don't feel any different. Everyone's life is moving forward and I feel like mine's just moving backwards, slipping further and further out of my grasp._

* * *

**June 10****th****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

_I_

_am_

_in_

_pieces._

* * *

**Blaine**

About two months after Kurt started to spiral, I had a breakdown. I was exhausted, strung-thin, and terrified out of my mind; I had been for weeks. I wasn't sleeping or eating right because I was trying to take care of and keep an eye on him, which meant that I was constantly worried. In the beginning, he would let me come over, even if he just sat on the couch and didn't say much. He would hold my hand, suck in a quiet breath, and then he would get a pained look in his eyes, having silent conversations in his head. It was as if he was arguing with himself, torn between what he wanted to do and what he actually did. Whenever I called him, he almost always answered, but that didn't mean I couldn't hear the hitch in his voice or the way he held his words as to not reveal too much. He was distancing himself from me – but in what way, I didn't know. Whether it was a permanent thing in his mind at the time or just a resting point until he could figure out what to do, all it did was pull away my reserve, layer by layer.

This took place for most of March – the slow decent into something I hadn't seen coming, not like that. It had been so abrupt, so out of the blue, like waking up into a nightmare. One day we were fine, and the next we weren't; it happened that fast. I tried to talk to him, to get him to open up to me and tell me what was wrong, but he brushed it all off and told me that he was fine. When it got to the point where he couldn't look me in the eyes when he said he was okay, I knew: the monsters had come back.

One week. That's all it took him to lose all the progress he'd made within the year. He went from happy, smiling at me when I kissed him and laughing whenever I grabbed his hand and danced with him, to just… sad. He was quiet, withdrawn, and all of the things that used to make him feel better when he wasn't having a good day – things like a movie or a date night or my arms wrapped around him while we laid together in bed – only made him revert further into himself.

It took a little bit longer for the light to go out of his eyes, for him to push away my contact, for "I love you's" to be sporadic things – but eventually, all of that came, too. And after the second time he didn't say that he loved me back, I cracked. I drove home, a trembling hand pressed against my mouth as the pressure behind my eyes started to build.

I was so utterly and completely terrified, for us and for him and for me, the soul-shaking, hysterical kind of fear that I felt rooted in my bones. It had been creeping through my body and eventually, it consumed my every waking thought. I thought of nothing else, and one night, I knew I had a right to be scared.

"What do you think it feels like to drown?" he'd asked, sitting next to me on the couch, still, staring at nothing. I grabbed his hand, rested my forehead against it, letting out a shaky breath because I could feel him slipping away. "I don't think it feels like sticking your head underwater. It's more that everything inside you can't get out. It's just swimming inside you, filling you up until you have no more room left."

And soon after, the spaces inside his body had been completely filled. He had drowned, and then he was just lifeless.

* * *

**June 18****th****, 2012 – Kurt**

I stumbled into the bathroom, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hand as I tried to control my breathing. I threw the letter I'd just written down, clamping my hands down over the sides of the counters. I stood in front of the mirror with shaky legs, looking up at my reflection. My hair was disheveled from gripping it so hard and the dark circles that rested just under my eyes seemed so much more prominent in the harsh, fluorescent lighting. The resignation written in my features was accompanied by a quiet sadness that flowed off of me in waves, and it was then that I knew I had given up for a final time.

This was not how my life was supposed to go. I could have gotten better, with Blaine's help and Rachel and my father and medication, if I tried. I'd had a plan, even. I would intern for a year at a local fashion retailer and take classes at Ohio State until Blaine was done with high school and he and I could join Rachel in New York. It was all so close, if I wanted it. But I was just too tired, and that plan had been formed in December, when things were good. _This_ had always been the end goal, hadn't it? In March, I decided to give it all up, for what I was about to do. To protect Blaine and give him a shot at some semblance of normalcy.

I picked up a bottle of pills. Every movement was a struggle because my limbs felt heavy, like cement and bricks had melded with my bones. My cheeks were wet and slippery as tears continued to slip out over my lashes, rolling off my nose and down my skin. Thoughts swirled around my head at a dizzying rate and I had to brace myself against the counter so I wouldn't fall.

_ I want Blaine._

_He doesn't deserve this._

_ He can help me._

_I've hurt so many people. I can't hurt them anymore. I can't keep hurting him._

_ I don't have to do this._

_This was always supposed to happen. You knew that._

The bottle slipped from my fingers and tumbled into the sink. My hands reached up and tangled in my hair, pressing against my ears to try and stop the voices.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" I cried, pacing my bathroom.

_ Because you deserve to be hurt the way you hurt other people_, I heard.

"That's why I'm doing this," I told them through clenched teeth as more tears slipped out.

_ Taking a bottle of pills is like going to sleep, Kurt. There's no pain involved. Don't be selfish. You know what you have to do._

Yes, I knew exactly what I had to do.

And all at once, my skin began to itch. It craved the familiar feeling of being opened up, of being cut into and bled dry. It wanted the slice of a blade that was tucked away under my pillow, wanted to feel the warm liquid emptying from my veins. My body felt tight, like I was being stretched and pulled, and a sob escaped from my lips.

_ I'm really doing this._

I stood weakly, my vision blurred. I tried to blink away my tears, to no avail, and I looked around wildly for a moment before my eyes came to rest upon the letter that I'd thrown sloppily onto my counter. There were others, of course; one for Rachel, my father, Finn and Carole. But this one, this was the important one. My hand reached out and I couldn't stop myself from picking it up and reading the words that I'd had memorized in my heart for months.

_ Dear Blaine_, it read.

_I know this is unexpected, but you'll get over it eventually. You're resilient, strong, and I know it won't be any different in this case. I don't deserve you – I never did – and don't think I ever will._

_ And I know you're blaming yourself, but I need you to know that __none__ of this is your fault, okay? I promise. I just couldn't do it anymore and I couldn't bear to take you down with me. You have so much potential, Blaine. You have such a passion for the world around you and you're so talented. You could be whatever you wanted to be – a writer, a teacher, a social worker – but I know that deep down, you want to perform. You can do anything that you put your mind to; you're so determined and once you get your heart set on something, there's no going back. You can make something of yourself, but not if I'm around._

_ It's easier this way. I wasn't worth much, so please don't cry over me. Everyone will move on, and I need you to be one of those people. In three months' time, I'll be nothing but a hazy memory, and that's what I want. I don't want this to affect your life and how you live it in the future. I'm doing this for you, so you can have the life that you always wanted. You're young and you have an entire world full of amazing things to discover. You can go to New York and live your dream. You can go to college and major in music performance. You don't think you can do it, but I do. I believe in you, Blaine. You can make it on Broadway or you can be number one on the Billboard charts. You can fall in love with someone that isn't me and move on with him. You can get that loving husband and that house with the white picket fence and the dog and the two kids that you've always wanted. You can be happy. You can move on and you don't have to ever look back. Keep charging ahead, Blaine Anderson, because I know that you're going to take the world by storm. _

_ I wasn't built for this life, or that life, or any life, really. I was just put here without a reason to actually be on this earth, so I made it my purpose to help you. I hope I did, in the end. Dreams were never meant to be mine, but they were always supposed to be yours. You have to promise me that you'll keep living when I'm gone, that you won't throw your life away, okay? I was holding you back, and on some level, you have to know that. I was the constant worry and tension in your life, even though I never meant for that to happen. I was an obligation, not a choice. And I'm always too happy with you or too unhappy with myself. I don't know what gray is. I never did. _

_ I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you, or anyone, but you're __you_ _and you always did have a habit of working your way into my heart when I least expected it. I love you so much, and you are the soul mate I never intended to have. You may be my only love, but I'm not yours. Don't let me be the only person you ever love. You deserve so much better than this, and I'm so sorry that I had to be the first boy you fell for. I tried to avoid it, but it's just like the day we met: once you knew what was wrong, you wouldn't let me go. You wanted to fix me, but you can't fix someone who doesn't want to be saved._

_ I couldn't talk to you, not about this. It would have destroyed you and there's nothing that you could have done or said to change my mind. I need you to know that, too. No amount of therapy or medicine could have fixed something that's so far past broken. I'm sand, Blaine, glass that's been ground into millions and millions of tiny little pieces. I was glued together for a while, because I met a certain hazel-eyed boy on a staircase, and I had four good months – four wonderful, lovely, carefree months with you that I will always cherish. And then all the band-aids were gone and suddenly I was nothing but a mess of jagged, fragile remains that got crushed so easily by the weight of the world in my head._

_ I remember a night, a few months ago, where we laid in the grass and looked up at the stars. You said we couldn't lie in the street like I wanted to because it was too dangerous, so we compromised. We counted the constellations as we recited quotes to each other and I will forever remember that as one of the best days of my life. It was before everything went bad in my head, when I was happy; I just want you to know that._

_ I will leave you with these words and I mean every single bit of them, always._

_ I love you now as I write this, and I love you now as you read this, _

_Kurt_

I squeezed my eyes shut as another sob escaped my lips, and the letter crumpled a bit in my fingers. I released it with a shaky hand and then covered my mouth as I rushed into my bedroom. I immediately pushed my pillows away to reveal the only thing that could have helped me.

I picked up the razor blade. It was a fairly small one, square with three small holes in the center of it, but the edge was sharp, and that's all I needed. It only took a second of light pressing for blood to come dribbling out, bright red and bubbling and clinging together on my skin. A sigh escaped from my mouth, and I slowly let my feet bring me to the floor. I continued to run it teasingly over the surface of my arm, causing strings of blood to pop up, but it wasn't deep enough to scar. Yet.

After minutes of toying with the metal, my anticipation was building so I took a deep breath before I pushed down harder and drug it up my arm. This time, blood gushed from the wound that would now most definitely leave a mark, and I could feel everything start to leave my body. All I could focus on was the pounding in my ears and the memories seeping out of me. I did it again, and again, and again, until there were at least a dozen parallel lines leaking out the things that I didn't want to feel anymore.

I was getting lightheaded and things were starting to spin, but I didn't care. I kept ripping my skin open without any intentions of ever stopping. Blood was pooling around my leg and it was messy as it dripped down my arm, but I liked it. It reminded me of how I felt inside.

Nothing hurt anymore. I felt light, like a feather, and I wanted to float in the air.

The blade slipped from my hand, slick with the coppery red liquid that was falling out of me, and a small smile twitched at my lips. My eyes felt heavy, so I blinked a few times before I let them slowly drift shut.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

The first thing I was aware of when I woke was the loud, steady beep of a monitor. It rang in my ears and I tried to flick my eyes open to see where it was coming from, but I couldn't. I settled for groaning, because my head was throbbing painfully, along with my left arm. I felt completely numb and cold, like there wasn't any blood left in my veins to keep my body running. There was a sharp sensation near the inside of my elbow, but it also felt kind of warm there, too, amid the coldness.

"Kurt, can you hear me?"

I heard the words but I didn't quite understand what they meant. They were spoken by an unfamiliar voice, and I wondered if I was in the afterlife I never believed in. Another strangled sound came from between my lips, and I tried to move my head, but when I did, it felt like there was a brick being dropped on it.

"Kurt?" I recognized this voice. I couldn't remember how, but I was positive I'd heard it before. It was supposed to be smooth like velvet, I knew, but it cracked like his throat was tight and he was holding back tears.

"Is he waking up?" This time it was a girl who spoke, and she sounded further away so I knew that she must've been speaking to somebody else in the room. Her words were thick, as if she'd been crying, and I heard her sniffle.

"Bud?" The tone was gruff, but still familiar. His voice was hoarse and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "Bud, can you hear us?"

"Kurt," said the authoritative tone that I couldn't place, "if you can hear us, open your eyes."

My eyelids moved with effort, but it felt like they'd been glued together.

"I know it's hard, but you've gotta try for me, Kurt."

My curiosity drove me to pry my eyes open, slowly, one at a time. The light of the room was blinding and it burned, so they automatically and instinctively closed.

"No, Kurt. I need you to keep them open."

"I know it hurts, honey, but you can do it." I decided that if this was in fact some sort of afterlife, then I wanted to be around his voice for as long as I could. It was calming and it pushed me to blink my lids apart.

"Good, Kurt. Do you know where you are?"

I gently looked around, eyes moving languidly as I took in my surroundings. I was in a… hospital? I mumbled again, wincing because now that I was more awake, my arm really, really hurt. I started to drift off again, but a voice brought my focus back.

"Kurt?"

My eyes opened once again and I was staring at a lady who couldn't be any older than thirty. She was wearing light pink scrubs with a long white coat over them and her blonde hair fell in waves around her shoulders. There was a clipboard in her hand and a stethoscope around her neck.

I tried to speak, to ask why I was there, but no sounds came out. I was able to manage another grunt as she stepped closer to me.

"Kurt, you're in the hospital. Do you know why you were brought in?"

I thought back in my brain. Everything seemed hazy and unclear, like I was looking through a dirty lens. I vaguely remembered Blaine dropping me off and then going up to my room, and -

The realization hit me and the little color in my face drained away.

_ Oh God, I'm supposed to be dead why am I not dead this wasn't the plan, _I thought in a panic.

I struggled to move, whines coming from my throat as I raised my arm up. It felt heavy and it was bandaged from my wrist all the way to just below the top of my shoulder. The stinging sensation I felt earlier was coming from the needle that was taped in the crook of my elbow, draining some kind of liquid into me. My fingers went to rip it out, but a gentle hand grabbed my wrist before I could get to it.

"Shh, it's okay, calm down." It's that same voice again, but this time, I knew who it belonged to. Of course I did. Blaine. "I'm here, you're okay. You're gonna be okay."

The other girl in the room – who I now realized was Rachel – clamped a hand to her mouth and turned away to cry.

_ This is why you're supposed to be dead_, I was reminded. _This is what you do to people._

When Blaine's face came into view, the first thing I noticed was his eyes. Normally a shade of golden honey, they were now more of a matted, dull gray color. It made my heart ache, knowing that I, once again, was the cause of another pain in his life. My throat tightened and then after a moment, I felt tears slip down my cheeks.

"Honey, no, don't cry. Shh, it's okay." Blaine grabbed my hand and held it tightly between his own. He pressed a kiss to my knuckles and then smoothed back my hair. "Oh, you're okay."

"Kurt, you lost a lot of blood earlier, so we've had you on an IV all night," the doctor said. "That's why you're weak and you feel so light headed. Everything's heavy, right? It's hard to move?"

I was able to get an _Mm_ out as I tried to sit up, but he immediately put a hand to my chest.

"You have to rest, Kurt. Try not to move too much, alright? You can't pull that needle out. The blood is trying to get used to being in your body, and as soon as it adjusts, which should be soon, things will start to clear up." The doctor moved around to the side of my bed and inspected my arm gently to make sure the needle was still in properly. "It's very important that this stays in. Don't try and take it out, okay?"

My lips tried again to unsuccessfully form words and my eyelids were getting heavier, even with the tears falling from them.

"Close your eyes, bud," I heard someone – probably my father – tell me. "We'll be here when you wake up."

"We love you, Kurt," Rachel piped quietly from the back, and it was the last thing I heard.

* * *

"Hey," I said in a scratchy voice, turning my head to look at Blaine. Everything was still foggy and I wasn't sure how long I'd been asleep. I tried to remember what had happened, but thinking made my head hurt.

Blaine glanced up from his chair, a notebook in his lap and a pen in his right hand. His left hand was still gripping mine, and even though he had sadness in his features and dark circles under his eyes, he smiled.

"Hi, sweetheart. How are you feeling?" He set down the notebook and smoothed my hair out of my forehead, letting his thumb run over my cheekbone.

"It hurts," I rasped out.

"Yeah, you really did a number on yourself, didn't you?" His voice was quiet, thick.

"Where's Rachel?" I asked, ignoring his words.

He nodded his head to the side, and I saw her curled up on a bench chair, sleeping. "She passed out about an hour ago. She refused to go home and she wouldn't sleep until you woke up. She was waiting there for you, but she was exhausted and nodded off."

"How long has it been?"

"It's Wednesday night. You were brought in yesterday afternoon," he told me. I didn't miss the small sigh that escaped his lips, and his grip on my hand tightened.

"What'cha got there?" I mumbled, trying to change the subject. My brain was jumbled and confused, so I didn't have a sense of time. I vaguely remembered why I was in the hospital, but I wasn't able to _feel_ anything. My eyes were already beginning to blink closed and it took effort to keep them open.

"I'm writing." He gave me a sad smile, thumb rubbing in circles over my knuckles.

"Oh?" I mumbled thickly.

"Mm-hm."

"A song?"

He nodded.

"What's it called?"

"Angel," he said simply, looking at me with tired eyes.

"Mm, you're my angel," I whispered, lips curving upwards weakly as the heaviness in my eyes started to win. "I don't believe in an Afterlife, or a Heaven, but I believe in angels. Because of you."

"Me too, Kurt. Me too," he murmured fiercely, nodding, and his voice cracked. He put his notebook down and ran the side of his thumb over my cheek. "I love you, so, so much."

"I love you, too."

And then everything went black as I drifted off into another dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was dark the next time I woke. Bewildered, I looked around and remembered where I was. A groan came from between my lips, my chest rising and falling along with it. I felt a pressure on my hand and looked down to see a head of wild curls on the bed near the fingers clutching mine. I ignored the long pads of gauze wrapped tightly around my arm, shutting my eyes and looking away. I took a breath, swallowed, and then let my gaze wander to where the IV was. It had been taken out, leaving only a small cotton ball and a band aid in its place. I felt a tightness in my throat as the events of the last night I'd been awake flooded through my mind.

I was still a little lightheaded and my arm was throbbing, but I could at least move my neck without wanting to throw up. I tried to lean forward to shift into a sitting position, using the hand that the needle had been in. I winced, swearing under my breath. The small movement shook Blaine awake and he shot his head up, looking around frantically.

"Hey, no, don't try to use your arms right now," he said softly once he realized what I was trying to do, running his hands over his face. "They're both really sore. From the IV and from… from the other night." He got up and went around to the other side of the bed, carefully helped me into a sitting position. He caught my fingers when they fell into my lap and brought them to his lips.

"She left," he said when he saw me scanning the room for Rachel. "Your dad wanted her to eat something so he took her down to the cafeteria."

I tentatively glanced up to him, and once I saw the heartbroken expression on his face, pain shot through my chest. _I _did that. _I_ made Blaine look like that. I let my head fall to my chest and I pulled my fingers away. Tears formed and I breathed in harshly through my nose, trying to swallow them down.

"Kurt…"

And then Blaine was crying, warm drops running down his face as he stood there in front of my hospital bed. "Why didn't you tell me?" He raked a hand over his face and through his hair, pacing the room. "I – I could've helped you, I could have _done_ something – "

"Nothing you could have done would have made a difference," I said, my own tears finally spilling over. It's not at all what I actually wanted to tell Blaine, and especially not then. I should have said, _I'm sorry I put you through that_, or _I love you_, or _I didn't want to hurt you_, but the words had slipped through my mouth and I couldn't have taken them back, no matter how true they were.

My arms itched with the burn of Blaine's words and I wanted to open my skin again. I wanted to paint patterns with this new blood that wasn't my own and I wanted the blade to fucking _work _this time. I didn't do it hard or deep enough because I was still there, living and breathing and hurting people.

"No," Blaine told me forcefully, walking up to the bed. He wiped his cheeks and shook his head. "I could have helped. I wouldn't have let you _do_ this to yourself. God, Kurt, what did you do?" He lightly picked up my bandaged arm, placing it against his cheek. "I can feel your pulse," he whispered after a moment, taking in a breath and sniffling. "It's quiet, but it's there."

"I wish it wasn't."

"Stop saying that!" he yelled loudly, suddenly. He pulled a crumpled letter from his back pocket, undoubtedly the one lined with my confessions and spattered with my blood. "_This_," he began shakily, holding it in front of my face, "is bullshit. You know it as well as I do. You think I could've moved on after something like that? You're delusional, Kurt. I would have never gotten over it. _Never_. I would have spent the rest of my life _blaming_ myself for something that I could have stopped. And you think you're broken? No. Fragile, hurting, yes. But broken?" He shook his head, tears still falling from his lashes, and he sucked in a breath. He pulled a chair next to my hospital bed, running his fingers over my cheek. "I would've traded it all for you, you know," he murmured, calmer. "New York. Being a singer. The dumb house with the dumb dog and the white fence."

And then it hit me – like a ton of bricks, dizzying and painful and almost too much to bear. I had to leave.

"Maybe I didn't want you to." I squeezed my eyes shut, a pressure building in me, and I felt warmth flowing on my cheeks.

"Why not? I love you. _Let me_ love you."

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Blaine," I told him, shaking my head as I began to cry harder.

"We are _not _wrong," he said, gripping my hand as he put his forehead against mine. "We're not wrong," he repeated, whispering. "This isn't wrong." I could feel his warm breath on my cheek, could feel his eyelashes flutter. He pressed his lips to my mouth and a shaky sigh escaped. "We're not wrong."

I shook my head and turned away when he went to kiss me again.

"I want you to look at me right now," he began brokenly, voice low at my ear, "and tell me that our love isn't right. Tell me that it's not special, or once in a lifetime, or beautiful. It may not be conventional or normal or _easy_, but we've already gotten through so much. We could do it again. Tell me that we're so _goddamn_ _wrecked_ that we can't fix it. Tell me that I don't love you enough to help you get through this. Tell me that you don't love me enough to stay."

I breathed out, letting my eyes fall shut. Tears slipped from the corners and dripped onto the sheets. I didn't say what he wanted me to.

"I'm so tired, Blaine."

"It's okay," he exhaled, catching my tears and gripping my hand on his cheek under his. His ran over the side of my face, hooking under my chin, and then I was looking into sad, weary eyes. "Oh, it's okay. It's okay to be tired. I've never told you that before, but it's okay."

Long seconds passed in still, never-ending silence. It was too quiet; the sound of my monitors beeping somewhere in the background and the voices of the nurses outside the door and the way Blaine's breath hitched when he held his jaw like he was trying not to cry – it all faded away. In its place, there was nothing. It was just me and him and all of my secrets spilling, tumbling, forcing themselves out of my lips and into the air.

"If you're a bird, I'm a bird, remember?"

_ I remember, I do._

"I'm tainted. I'm ruining you," I told him instead, breathing harshly. I was crushing his delicate body in my hands, bruising his wings and breaking his heart. "I put you in this position. You never planned to fall in love with someone who can't stop hurting themselves. So you don't have to – have to stay, okay? I'm not going to force you. This isn't your fight. I can't keep burdening you with this anymore, there's nothing I can do to stop it and I'm always going to be this way because there's something wrong with _me_, it's more than just some chemical in my – my brain," I sobbed, the words being ripped from inside.

He crawled into the bed with me, cradling my body as he kissed my face and shook his head and told me that he would never leave, that he would make sure I ended up okay because he loved me more than anything he could ever imagine.

"You know, better than – better than anybody," I started, chest heaving with the sobs inside of it, "that love isn't always enough."

"Where is this coming from?" He wiped my cheeks and ran his hands through my hair. "Why are you doing this?" He let out a breath against my skin, his eyes shining with tears as he searched my face for an answer. "Come back to me, Kurt, I know you're still in there."

"Sometimes – sometimes things change," I choked out.

And oh, how they do.

* * *

I left not a month later.

* * *

**A/N: I'm so sorry this was late; real life gets in the way sometimes! I will now be posting on either Friday, Saturday, or Sunday – the weekend days! I'll always try to get them up for y'all on the first day, but in case something happens, that's the backup plan. Oh, and the song referenced in this chapter was **_**Angel**_** by Sarah McLachlan. **

**Don't forget to comment and let me know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is where the format changes a bit. Instead of having both Kurt and Blaine's perspectives in the chapter, it's gonna be one of the boys per chapter for a little while! For timeline purposes, Kurt left around July 19****th****, 2012, so this chapter picks up a few days after that. The two songs in this chapter are ****Wasted Love**** by Matt McAndrew and ****Lay Me Down ****by Sam Smith. I highly highly highly recommend listening to them when they come up because it enhances the experience tenfold and portrays emotions that I simply couldn't put into words. (Every song in this story is written as Blaine's own song, just an fyi)**

**Oh, and I finally introduce a character in the flesh! It's time for Super Awesome Big Brother Cooper Anderson to make an appearance! ;) Also Anderberry.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: Mentions of depression and suicide/attempted suicide.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: We Were Supposed To Be Forever**

_(Blaine, July 2012 – July 2013)_

* * *

"_**You can die of a broken heart – it's scientific fact – and my heart has been breaking since that very first day we met. I can feel it now, aching deep behind my rib cage the way it does every time we're together, beating a desperate rhythm: Love me. Love me. Love me." – **_**Abby McDonald, ****Getting Over Garrett Delaney**

* * *

**July 22****nd****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_I slept in your bed last night. It still smells like you. I hope you don't mind._

* * *

**August 13****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_It's almost been a month and they're still searching for you and everything's in chaos. Burt's mad with grief; Finn's angry and confused because he thinks it's his fault that he didn't realize sooner; Carole's numbed her own feelings to keep all of us going; Rachel's devastated, but she won't leave my side. She only goes away to cry because she won't do it in front of me. Cooper's just as bad because he understands that this is worse than even what my parents did, and I know what he tells Rachel when he's whispering to her. He knows me well enough to know what I want to do, and I think they told Carole too because she has this sad look in her eyes whenever she meets my eyes and she's always hugging me. The knives are no longer in the kitchen. The blades aren't in the bathroom. I'm in so much pain and I don't know what to do. _

_We're all staying at your house, as if being there brings us closer to you. I know it's hopeless but I can't give up hope, so I'll let them keep looking even though I know you're gone._

_I miss you._

* * *

**August 24****th****, 2012 - Blaine's Journal**

_I kept that letter you wrote me before you tried to commit suicide. I read it every day. I've memorized it. It's the goodbye I'll never get._

_It's the only thing left I have of you. The only thing that matters, anyway._

* * *

**September 2****nd****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

"Wasted Love" by Blaine Anderson

_Oh, wasted love_

_So I'm not supposed to love you no more  
I guess I'm not supposed to care  
I held you so close, now I'm holding a ghost  
How can love just disappear?  
And where does it go when it's over,  
I know that it's somewhere out here_

_Has anybody seen all my wasted love?  
I've been down every street, no I won't give up  
If I have to die trying to justify, that's how it's gonna be  
Has anybody seen all my wasted love?_

_Oh, wasted love._

_Oh, wasted love._

_It's late, I'm drunk and I'm running on empty tonight  
Baby, I'm chasing my shadow around  
Like smoked cigarettes I inhale these regrets  
I can't change what I've become  
There's pain and there's glory, but this is my story  
I'm asking everyone_

_Has anybody seen all my wasted love?  
I've been down every street, no I won't give up  
If I have to die trying to justify, that's how it's gonna be  
Has anybody seen all my wasted love_

_Knocking down doors and I'm pounding the pavement  
Lie at your mercy, will somebody save me? Save me?_

_Has anybody seen all my wasted love?  
I've been down every street, no I won't give up  
If I have to die, let me testify, that's how it's gonna be  
Has anybody seen all my wasted love?_

_Bring it back to me, all my wasted love_

* * *

**September 6****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_Cooper and I finally went back home. Rachel's staying with her parents even though she spends most of her time with me making sure I'm okay. It feels like we're giving up on you and I can't stand it. Carole made Burt call off the search; she knows he's gone and deep down, so does he._

_You can't be gone._

* * *

**September 24****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_I know I told you that I was ready to give it all up for a shot at forever, but I lied. I need you here with me. _

_Please come home._

* * *

**September 27****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_I'm going to your house._

_I can't do this._

* * *

**September 29****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_I tried to kill myself._

_It didn't work._

_I wish it had._

* * *

**September 30****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_When I woke up, I didn't know where I was or remember what had happened. I was so drugged up that I'd been asleep for an entire day. Everything ached, my bones and my skin and my heart, and the pounding in my head wouldn't go away, a constant reminder of what I'd done. They'd told me that I'd drank a bottle of vodka and then probably smashed it to pieces to cut myself. I had a harsh scar several inches long on my forearm, ugly and raised with stitches, next to the one I'd given myself when I was fourteen. Now I have two scars to match. I'd gotten alcohol poisoning so they'd pumped my stomach and I'd lost so much blood that I needed to have a transfusion. Cooper was the donor._

_I don't think I'd ever seen Rachel cry as hard as she did when she was finally allowed to come see me. Her body became a permanent fixture on my bed. Cooper was a wreck. His eyes were so sad and I could tell that he was disappointed. But he wasn't angry. He wasn't like dad was the last time I'd tried. _

_Burt, Carole, and Finn came and he told them that I needed a few days to clear my head. He said that he'd bring me to come see them as soon as he could._

_I know I won't go see them. I can't go back into that house. It smells like you and reminds me of you and it'll make me want to do this all over again._

* * *

**October 8****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_I never felt trapped by you, despite what you think. I never felt "obligated" to stay. I stayed because I wanted to._

_You need to know that._

* * *

**October 20****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_When I was little, I believed in love at first sight. I thought that when I found my person, I would get this weird fluttery feeling in my stomach and I would pause and everything else in me would just fall away because it would only have room for the love I had for them. But now I'm not so sure, because that's not what it was like._

_It was I-Really-Like-You-And-Don't-Know-Why-Because-I-Just-Met-You at first sight. For me, anyways. I was drawn to you but I never really understood it, the way someone with amnesia remembers how to paint even though they don't remember learning, because I didn't even know what love felt like. But you were you and __you__ taught me what it meant to love and be loved, and then that was it. I didn't know when I looked at you over breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning, I didn't know when we were watching a movie and you grabbed my hand, I didn't know in a hundred other clichéd circumstances. It was something I realized over the span of the first few months I knew you, falling more and more each time I saw you and then I was just used to it._

_That night you told me about your cutting, it was like the final puzzle piece clicking into place. It wasn't some giant tidal wave crashing over me and thrumming through my veins and taking over each part of me. It was all these little moments building and building until finally my feelings gently rolled onto shore, quiet but strong. It was just simple. It was merely a thought, a confirmation of what I was nearly sure I knew already, and it felt natural. Like "oh, there you were and I've been looking for you forever." Like "oh, you're more important to me than anything in the world." Like "oh, I want to spend the rest of my life loving you no matter how hard it is because I choose __you__." I chose you, Kurt, every day, over and over and over. When we fought, when you relapsed, when you pushed me away after you were so broken that you weren't even a whole person._

_Because you were it for me and I would keep finding you until I couldn't anymore. I was never scared of loving you, not until the end. I knew how much I had to lose, and then one day, I looked everywhere and you were gone and I knew that our day had come and it was all over._

_So no, I don't believe in love at first sight. I don't think you can love a person without knowing anything about them. I fell in love with you when I knew who you were – strong and brave and so beautiful, a fighter disguised as a disaster. I don't know what we were, if we were something special or once in a lifetime or if I made it all up in my head, but we were just __us__ and I'd like to think that we were each and every one those things. We were Kurt and Blaine and I could love and love and love you all the way until the end, and I did, I suppose._

_I just wish I had been the one to write our story. I wouldn't have ended it there._

* * *

I hated night. I hated when the sun dipped over the horizon; when the sky went from a clear blue to an infinite, never-ending mass of black; when the stars and the moon reappeared from their hiding spots behind the clouds. Because that's when the demons came out to play, while it was dark, lurking in the shadows of the quiet stillness of my room. Sleeping became a constant stream of broken promises and shattered dreams, played on repeat, over and over in an endless loop_. _I was forced to live the story of _us_, of our relationship, for hours and hours and hours each time I closed my eyes. I met him again on the Dalton Academy stairs, kissed him for the first time, recited quotes on the grass with him tucked into my chest – all as if it was something I had never done before. I saw us together last Christmas, flirty and carefree and _in love_, and I saw us sitting on a porch swing, promising each other forever. I would think to myself, _how did we end up like this?,_ and then w_hat if's _and_ could've been's _and_ should've been's_ whirled through my head and didn't ever stop.

_ It just never stopped._

I eventually gave up on trying to sleep at all because I couldn't handle the images of us in my mind, together and blissfully unaware of what was to come. Night was when mingling pictures of the past and hopes for the future collided; so many flashbacks and so much love _gone_, nothing but lost time and hazy memories now. Everything came flooding back in an instant: all of the tears and the kisses and the smiles and everything and anything that ever was _Kurt and Blaine_, good or bad. It drove me insane, and I screamed into my pillow and cried and cried until my brother had to come in hold me because I just couldn't stop. I should have been embarrassed, but I never was because it happened so often that it became normal. It was simply the way things were.

_It's just Kurt_, I would think in an attempt to calm myself. The rational part of me would override my heart and tell it that no, he wasn't Kurt anymore – he was nothing more than the boy who had left my life in shattered pieces, the boy who took my heart and future with him when he went away. He was the boy who I hated with every fiber in my being and every thread to my soul, and sometimes, I really did mean that.

But deep down, I knew who Kurt would _always_ be to me – the boy I still loved. The boy I would continue love until the day I died, until forever disappeared and until the stars burned out. I knew, with everything I had and anything I ever _would_ have, that I could never _not _love Kurt.

I just… I didn't _understand._ I didn't get an explanation or even a goodbye. That was the worst part of it all – not knowing _why_ he'd left. Wasn't I worth that much, for him to tell me the reason he'd gone? All I happened to be, without my façade of Dalton blazers and smiles and the strength that I'd needed to have for Kurt, was a broken, terrified little boy with too much love in his heart and too many scars on his wrist. _That _was my becoming without him, without his love and his support and his arms wrapped tightly around me. Because no matter how bad he could get at times, no matter how much he hurt or cried or cut, he was still the strongest person I'd ever known. And he wasn't there anymore when things were harder than they'd ever been.

* * *

**October 29****th****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_I looked at myself in the mirror today and I didn't even recognize the person staring back at me. The reflection, the boy – he wasn't Blaine Anderson. He had my face and he wore the same clothes I did and he moved when I moved, but he wasn't __me__. He was just a shell of what I used to be, programmed to keep breathing, floating from day to day, lost. He's alive, but he isn't living. And it's scary._

_My hip bones are jutting out at sharp angles and my stomach is starting to cave in because I've stopped eating. (It's not that I'm being self-destructive, necessarily; I just have no desire to go near food. I have no desire for anything, really. I suppose I have him to blame for that.) I can count my ribs and my collar bone sticks out against my smooth chest. I'm pale, scarily so, skinny. My eyes are hollow and glazed over with dark circles surrounding them, no longer the clear hazel-honey they used to be. I'm surprised I'm alive at all, honestly. That's what's so fucked up about the body, isn't it? Even though you and your mind and everything about you doesn't want to keep living, your brain overrides your heart and forces you to go on._

_I've just… given up. I wish my body could understand that. I'm so tired. But I've promised Rachel and Cooper that I won't hurt myself at my own hand, not again, but if my heart were to become too weak? (Not metaphorically speaking, anyways.) Well, then that'd just be a coincidental accident, wouldn't it?_

_As I sat down to write earlier, I could see the reflection of my dresser behind me. The piece of glass from the bottle that I'd found tucked away under the fridge was shining in the mirror, sparkling and bright. They'd missed that one and I snatched it before they could find it. It was taunting me, calling out to me. I wanted to go to it, cradle it against my skin, let it caress my veins and meet with its long-lost lover. I'd rather drown in my own blood than slowly be ripped to shreds from the inside out._

_Memories flashed through my brain – some from when I was fourteen and desperate, most from when I was seventeen and alone. I let myself remember what it felt like to rip something across my forearm, to feel the sensation of draining out. I was mesmerized by the splash against the white tile floor, the way it shined as it hit the ground – the only color in a dull, tedious life. I heard monitors and beeping and a crying girl next to my bed. I heard the doctors tell me that I was lucky to be alive, that if it hadn't been for Cooper I would have been dead. I felt tears slipping down my cheeks, because I was __supposed_ _to have died, and I felt guilt crawling its way up my throat. My heart ached, and whether it was for them or myself, I don't know._

_My brain is in a constant tug of war with my heart, torn between living and dying, and I want so badly for the latter to win. But my body is so damned determined to keep me alive and the only thing that's stopping me from proving it wrong, from turning it all off, is Rachel and Cooper. I won't do that to them._

_I think I need a shower. A very hot, burning shower that will leave me red and raw. Heat is good. Heat means feeling. And ever since Kurt left, all I feel is pain. That, or numbness. Both are equally awful._

_It's nice to feel warmth for a change._

* * *

Rachel and I had fallen into a routine. Every day, I would go to school and attempt to distract myself with assigned reading and tests and math problems and ultimately, I would fail. She would go to work and then she would come over afterwards and talk with me and to try and help me sort out the feelings that I'd refused to deal with. And if I didn't want to think about Kurt, which was often, then she knew when to back off and put in a movie or old reruns of Project Runway that inherently made me think of him anyways.

She never left my side, even when I screamed at her that she should be at NYADA, the musical school that she'd been accepted to, and away from this god-awful town full of so many painful memories. She calmly informed me that she'd deferred to next year, with good reason, and that was that. I suppose I should have felt terrible that I let her give up New York, at least for a little while, to remain in Lima with me, but at the time I didn't care about anything.

Looking back on it, I realize that I owe her a debt of gratitude I'll never be able to repay.

* * *

**November, 2012**

"It's been five months, Rachel," I told her tiredly on one occasion after she asked me what I wanted to do for that day. "I'm okay."

It was always the same thing – the same question of _are you okay?,_ the same worn out reply of _I'm fine_. Everything was just _the same_ and I was starting to get so absolutely sick of it. I couldn't take it anymore. We danced around each other, feet quickly hitting the ground before they were picked back up, the game continuing. We never stopped, and in the process, we were hiding from the truth and frankly, the reality. It had been so long, yet we were still pretending. We wouldn't be okay, either of us, and we both knew that.

"You're not okay," she said softly but forcefully as she stepped into my house. "I know you better than that." _So you finally admit it_, I thought to myself, knowing that she wouldn't go anywhere until she got something out of me.

So I decided to give it to her. Why lie now?

I whirled around on my heels. "You're right," I shrugged, laughing nastily as I threw my arms in the air and began to tick my problems off on my fingers. "I can't sleep, and if I try, I have nightmares. My grades are shit. I sit here and cry when you leave every day. My mental state is fucking garbage. I don't eat, I can't focus, I can't concentrate. I just – "

"You're wearing his scarf," she pointed out quietly, ignoring my remarks. "You always are."

My hand went to the fabric around my neck, like a reflex, and my throat tightened with unshed tears. The corners of my eyes began to prickle as I took an automatic step back. My fight-or-flight instincts were kicking in and I wanted to run, run, run. Whether from the situation or the world, I wasn't sure; I was so sick of fighting that it made it hard to tell.

She eyed my feet, looking back up at me when she saw me rocking on them as I tried to plan an escape route in my head. "Blaine," she warned, taking a small step closer. "Listen to me. If you keep ignoring this, it's only going to get worse. You know that, right? Maybe your nightmares are trying to tell you something. You know, maybe if you accept that Kurt's – that he's gone," she stumbled over those last words, swallowing hard, "then it won't be so hard for you to move on. You need to let Cooper and I help you, okay? Just sit down and then we can talk." She spoke to me like a young child, like the SWAT team would talk to a gunman holding a pistol to a hostage's head. Quietly, slowly, as not to startle me. She didn't want me to do anything reckless or irrational, like I had done in the past. Because I was my own weapon, and she knew that.

"I've always had nightmares," I told her immediately, wanting nothing more than for this conversation to end.

"Blaine –"

"Please," I pleaded in a thick voice. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Blaine, you're going to have to come to terms with this at some point –"

"How do you think I feel?" I yelled suddenly, angry tears prickling in my eyes. "What do you want from me? What am I supposed to do, Rachel?"

"I want you to _live_!" she screamed back, throwing her arms out. "I want you to _try_. You're throwing your life away! You refuse to do anything! Just because he's gone doesn't mean that you get to give up! Pick yourself off the floor, dust yourself off, and _let us help you_."

"You don't _get it_, do you?" I spat cruelly, taking a step towards her. "I don't _want_ to be here anymore. There's no point in living a life that's miserable! I'm drowning, Rach. My lungs are slowly filling up and there's _nothing_ you can do to stop it! He was my _anchor, _and now that he's gone, I feel like I'm floating. From day to day, I skim the surface, head never going above water enough to breathe right, but never fully submerged, either. So it's all just rushing into me and it has no way to get out. I fucking tried and it didn't work!"

"I was there, I remember!" she shouted. "Do you know how much you scared me? I was terrified! I thought I would lose you, too!"

"That was the point!" I cried loudly, tears finally spilling over my eyes and running down my cheeks. "That was the _fucking_ point. I wasn't supposed to wake up!"

"There's life after love, Blaine! Find it!"

"Not for me, there isn't." I shook my head, wiping my cheeks. "And I don't want it. So turn around, walk out that door, and let me finish what I've been trying to do for the last five goddamn months."

_ "No."_

"Yes."

"You're going to fucking talk to me or to Cooper or write or do _something_, but I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

"Fine. You want to talk? Let's talk." I ripped a chair away from the dining room table and sat in it. I looked directly into her eyes as I spoke. "How many times do you think I've _thought_ about killing myself?"

She looked at me like I was a stranger, and perhaps I was.

"Blaine, this isn't nec—"

"How many times?" I repeated, voice more forceful than it was a second ago. I looked at her expectantly. Tears were shining in her eyes and her hands were shaking as she ran them through her hair. She knew what I was going to say and she didn't want to hear it. She wanted to pretend that I wasn't suicidal on a constant basis, that the time I tried to kill myself was just an "accident". Except it _wasn't_. It was too hard for her to accept the fact that I simply wasn't cut out for life anymore, and she wanted to ignore it, like we did everything else. "Every fucking day. Every single _fucking_ day I think about doing it. And how many times did I try? One."

"I know you're hurting," she said, dropping down on her knees in front of me. "I _know_ you are. But I can't watch you do this anymore."

"I don't know why it took so long to sink in," I murmured after a long silence, shrugging my shoulders helplessly as my eyes began to fill with tears again. I wasn't angry anymore, not exactly. I was just… defeated. Tired. So tired. "It should have been obvious that he wasn't coming back. I lived every day in an alternate world, just waiting for him to show up and say that it was all a big joke, you know? I still do."

"I think we all did," she said softly as her fingers framed my face and then fell down to grip my hand.

I was quiet.

I don't know how long we went without either of us talking, but when I finally spoke again, my eyes had run dry, leaving a salty-stickiness on my cheeks.

"That night, when I – when I tried, it was bad. It was really, really bad. I hated him for what he did to m-me, hated that he could break me so easily. But most of all? I just felt this overwhelming sense of – of sadness. It felt like it would never end. It was like there was a gaping hole in my chest, right over my heart. Right here," I pointed faintly, finger resting against my chest. "I've been down that road before, watched Kurt go through it. And I knew that I couldn't do it again."

I told her everything from that night, the second time in my life that I'd tried to commit suicide and the second time that I'd failed. I told her that I didn't have the energy or the strength to have to try _so hard_ to just be alive. I started from when I was fifteen, which was where things had really started, and even though she had already heard most of what I was saying, she listened anyways. As I got farther into my story, I began to re-live everything; realizing that I was gay, having my father overhear, being beaten to near death, Cooper coming to get me that night and the yelling and screaming that had taken place, taking the knife and slicing it up my skin, waking up in the hospital room empty of my parents.

As I explained, I was more and more certain that I couldn't go through that kind of pain again. It was much worse this time, because I _expected_ my parents to abandon me – I just never thought Kurt would.

When I finished, I'd found a way to produce more tears from within me, and I sobbed into her neck, arms wrapped around her like a vine. My chest heaved harder as my breaths came sooner and closer together, the tears leaking out and trailing down to my chin. Gasping sounds were coming from my lips and I was almost hyperventilating as I took in mouthfuls of air.

"Blaine," Rachel said, attempting to stop the droplets trailing down her own cheeks as she ran her fingers through my hair and down my neck. "Shh," she whispered, pulling me closer.

"Why does everybody always have to leave me?" I cried. I needed an answer. I needed to know why.

"I don't know, Blaine," she whispered, taking my face in her hands and forcing me to look at her. I squeezed my eyes shut, head shaking rapidly back and forth. "I don't know. Shh. You're not going to lose me. I won't leave you, Blaine, okay? I won't."

_ I won't leave you, Blaine, I promise. You won't lose me. I'm not ever saying goodbye to you._

Kurt's words rung in my ears, heavy like bricks and nothing but lies.

"Everybody always does."

"I'm not everybody."

"Neither was he."

"Shh," she kept repeating, hand smoothing over my hair. "Deep breaths. You're going to be okay. Feel my chest? Breathe with me. In, out. Good, keep doing that. Shh."

"I'm so, so scared that I'm gonna forget him, Rach," I exhaled. "His voice, the way he held me, his smile, all of it. I don't want to forget _us._" Tears were streaming down my face and I couldn't breathe. "And I'm so scared that I'm not gonna wanna fight anymore."

And eventually, I stopped crying and numbness took the place of my tears.

"I kept the piece of glass, you know," I told her in a faraway, monotone voice. I sounded tired, and I was. "It's sitting on the nightstand next to that picture of me and him."

"Blaine, you need to throw that thing away," she murmured into my hair. "Why would you keep it?"

_ I want to rip it through my skin and just bleed out because it's easier than trying to live without him, and it's easier than living with this hope – this one tiny little shred of light – that maybe he'll come home, that maybe he'll come back for me and I'll get to hold him in my arms again and kiss him and tell him I love him more than anything_ and never, ever let him go.

Instead, I merely said, "Because."

"Because?" she prodded.

"Just because," I said again, and that time, she understood that I didn't want to talk about it.

There was another drawn-out silence, and since neither of us knew what to say, she simply continued to hold me.

"I won't use it again," I told her, voice cracking and scratchy. I cleared it. "I can't. I promised him that I would never do it, but I did it anyways. And then I promised you and Cooper and I just – I had a moment of weakness and it won't ever happen again." I felt Rachel breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

"Do you wanna know what the most awful, twisted part about all of this is?" I asked, the question rhetorical. I just needed to talk. "That if I had a choice between me and him getting to live, it would be him. If only one of us could be happy, I would still choose him. Even if he wants nothing to do with me, I will _still _protect him in any way that I can. Always. So if leaving was what he had to do to be happy, then… okay." I sucked in a breath, letting it out through my nose, and shook my head. "That's what hurts the most. That I still love him enough to take a bullet for him, to give up everything, to let him walk away – and he… what? Still loves me? That can't be. Never loved me at all? More likely. Loved me and then walked away when he fell out of it? I don't know."

"He loved you, Blaine," Rachel murmured into my ear. She let her head fall against mine when I settled back against her. And somewhere inside of me, I knew that. Of course he loved me. But perhaps I had loved him more. "He looked at you like you were the sun and the moon."

"But not the stars."

"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.

"He looked at me like I was the sun and the moon, maybe, but he didn't look at me like I was the stars. I looked at him like that – like he was all of the constellations, the endless space, the heat, the light, all of it. Like he was made up, atom by atom, of every piece of star dust that has ever been a part of our universe."

I knew she didn't get it, and I didn't want her too. That was our thing, the stars were _ours_, indefinitely.

"You're blinded right now by all of the hurt. You were his whole world, and just because he left –"

"Why would he leave if he loved me?" I interrupted flatly.

"I don't… I don't know why. Maybe it was too protect you, I –"

"_Protect_?" I scoffed, pressure building in my chest and behind my eyes. "How is this _protecting_ me?"

"I don't know," she murmured again. "Maybe he just… did what he had to do."

A long silence filled the room.

"I'm so tired, Rach," I eventually told her.

At first, she was quiet. Then she spoke again, voice measured and thick as she tugged me closer.

"It's okay to be tired." She rested her chin on my head and we stayed like that until Cooper came home and held me instead.

* * *

**November 23****rd****, 2012 – Blaine's Journal**

_You loved me, right?_

* * *

**January, 2013**

"_Whenever you miss me, or anytime you're feeling sad, I want you to come outside and find that star, okay? It's the North Star. And every time you see it, I want you to know that I love you and that I miss you too. And that wherever I am, I'm thinking of you, always."_

_ "Okay," I said._

_ "I love you, Blaine Anderson. I love you to the moon and back and even farther than all of the planets and stars that we don't even know exist. Don't you ever forget that."_

I remember when Kurt had said those words to me, how undeniably and inexplicably _loved_ they'd made me feel. I'd carried them with me, wrapped around my heart like a vine, and even months after Kurt had left, summer changing into fall and then passing into winter, they were still there. Except now, the vine was almost dead, but not quite. The leaves were shriveled and the flowers had long been gone, but somehow, it just wouldn't die.

"You okay?"

Rachel climbed through the window and sat down next to me, the blanket around her shoulders dragging on the roof and gathering bits of snow. She pulled her knees up to her chest.

"Yeah, just... thinking."

"Kurt?" she asked me quietly, looking out into the night sky with me.

I nodded. I was always thinking about him.

"You really shouldn't. Don't make it harder for yourself."

"Is that why I heard you crying in the bathroom earlier?" I turned my attention to her, but she wouldn't look at me.

Rachel toyed with her fingers in her lap, and then caught a glimpse of my notebook open to a page titled "Lay Me Down". Her hands slid over it carefully, undoubtedly feeling the harshness of the indented letters. She was reading messy, scrawled words and lines crossed out hard enough to rip the paper. She was reading angry sentences and hopeful words and all of the dreams I'd once had for us. She was reading about Kurt.

_Yes I do, I believe  
That one day I will be, where I was  
Right there, right next to you  
And it's hard, the days just seem so dark  
The moon, and the stars, are nothing without you_

_Your touch, your skin, where do I begin?  
No words can explain, the way I'm missing you  
Deny this emptiness, this hole that I'm inside  
These tears, they tell their own story_

_You told me not to cry when you were gone  
But the feeling's overwhelming, it's much too strong  
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you  
And make sure you're alright  
I'll take care of you,  
And I don't want to be here if I can't be with you tonight_

_I'm reaching out to you  
Can you hear my call?  
This hurt that I've been through  
I'm missing you, missing you like crazy_

_You told me not to cry when you were gone  
But the feeling's overwhelming, it's much too strong  
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you  
And make sure you're alright  
I'll take care of you  
And I don't want to be here if I can't be with you tonight_

_Lay me down tonight, lay me by your side  
Lay me down tonight, lay me by your side  
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you  
_

When she finished, her gaze floated to me sadly and I took the notebook from her hands, closing it. After a moment, I did the same to my eyes.

"Blaine—"

"Don't say anything."

"No, I just… it's a beautiful song," she confessed quietly. "That's all."

"That whole book is filled with songs about him. I needed a way to get the pain out. It's not working." My eyelids fluttered open and I leaned my head back so that it rested on the walls on the roof of her house. I settled my hands in my lap and stretched my legs out, crossing them at the ankles. "Nothing seems to work anymore. Though it's not like I can get a blade every time I get sad, right?"

"You promised," is all she said.

"Is this the part where you judge me?" I questioned.

"I'd never judge you, Blaine. You know that."

I hummed in acknowledgement and looked back out at the floating, illuminated dots in the sky.

_ Maybe Kurt's out there somewhere_, I thought.

"Why are you so fascinated with stars?" Rachel asked softly after a minute, turning to face me. "I always catch you sitting at your window and just… staring. And you said that Kurt didn't look at you like you were the stars, and I never understood it."

"Because it's the only thing that we still share, this sky with so many stars and secrets," I said sadly, simply. "My favorite memories of us are of when we were under them at night, wrapped up in each other and the Big Dipper. And I know that right now, wherever he is, he might be looking at them too. Or, he might not be. But he has, at some point since he left, and even if we're not together, we're still tethered by the expanse of a dark night sky. And no matter where he's looking at it, it's still the same sky _I'm_ looking at. I like to think that if he was to ever confide in them like I do, that maybe I'd hear it, you know? Can't soul mates hear each other? I come out and listen for his 'I love you' or just for his voice, and I might always be waiting, but…" I let my words trail off, shrugged my shoulders as my throat began to tighten.

"Blaine," she says warningly. "Don—"

"He used to tell me that any time I saw the North Star, it meant that he loved me and that he was thinking of me," I interrupted, knowing very well what she was about to tell me. I looked up, eyes scanning quickly through the sky. "It's always visible, so that means he'll always love me, right?" I turned my body towards Rachel, denial thrumming strongly throughout my veins. "Maybe he's thinking of me now, you know, or he will soon because he told me that and he wouldn't lie to me. Maybe he'll come home soon, for me and for you, and it'll be like he never left and then we can just forget this ever happened and he can love me back and everything will be okay again." I kept nodding my head as my breathing began to accelerate and tears gathered in my eyes. "He'll come home soon, watch."

Within seconds, I was pulled into Rachel's arms and held tightly while she whispered comforting words into my ear and wrapped a blanket around both of us. I must've started crying, because I suddenly felt dampness running down my cheeks and dripping off of my chin. Sobs made their way out of my mouth, loud and painful, and I tangled my hands in her shirt.

"He'll come back," I cried, sucking air harshly into my lungs. "He has to."

"Blaine, don't do this to yourself," she murmured against my hair. "Don't. You can't. You know he's gone."

"He's not gone, Rach. He's n-not gone. He can't l-leave me."

"Shh, you're gonna be okay, Blaine. Shh." She laid my head under her chin and held me tighter. She began to slowly rock me back and forth, talking softly into my ear. "Shh, you've got to calm down for me, okay?"

Hot tears continued to roll down my cheeks, but the sobs eventually subsided. I kept trying to control my breathing, and the steady rise and fall of my chest gave me something to focus on. I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed out deeply, hiccupping. Rachel ran her hand comfortingly across my back and held the blanket securely around our shoulders.

"That's it, shh. You're okay, I'm here."

When my tears stopped completely, my eyes were puffy and red. We just sat there - Rachel watching the snow drift delicately down onto the roof and me staring up at the twinkling sky, numb and detached from the world.

"He once told me that he loved me past all of the stars in the sky," I said suddenly, and whether it was to her or to myself, I didn't know. "And every night, I look out into these stars and search for him, like maybe he's still out there. Like maybe his love's in there too, buried between the constellations and galaxies."

She hugged me tighter and gave the top of my head a kiss. We sat in each other's embrace, silent for a long while before I spoke up again.

"What do you think would happen if all of the stars just stopped glowing?"

"What do you mean?" she ask gently, almost inaudible.

"If all of the stars in the sky just... stopped working. If they didn't shine anymore." I looked at Rachel, nothing but sadness tinted in pools of liquid hazel.

"Well, we'd live in darkness. Nothing would be bright anymore and everything would die, because it's all dependant on those little glowing balls of light." She nods to the sky.

I was quiet for a long time, minutes passing in stillness as the snow gathered on the roof and the stars flickered.

"You're the only star I have left, aren't you?" I said the words as a statement more than a question, my eyes still trained on the endless stretch of night above me.

"They're still shining, Blaine."

* * *

I allowed myself to be delusional that night because I had to. I couldn't accept the reality, something buried so deep inside me that I refused to think about even though I knew it was true: he was gone.

* * *

**February 18****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_I think you and I just met at the wrong time, that's all._

_Maybe one day I'll find you again and we can start over._

* * *

**April, 2013**

Realistically, I knew that I should have been over Kurt by now and starting to piece myself back together. It was creeping up on a year since he'd left and he wasn't coming back; we all knew that. Instead of just _being _– and that's exactly what I was doing, existing– I should've been living my life and planning my move to New York with Rachel. I knew that she belonged there, but I wasn't sure about myself, not anymore. I felt guilty.

I shoved it away and ignored it.

I shouldn't have been bringing Rachel down with me, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing someone else, of losing one of the last people in my life that actually cared about me. I had Rachel, and I had Cooper. That was it.

One night, after she'd come over to talk to me about graduation and college and our upcoming living situation, I had told her to leave. It was too much for me to think about when I didn't even know what I wanted in the first place. Cooper knocked on my door shortly after.

"B?" he called out, using my childhood nickname. "Can I come in?"

"Are you going to give me a lecture on how I need to start thinking about my future?" I mumbled against my pillow, staring at the wall. "Minus Kurt."

"Rachel has a point, you know," he said quietly, coming in and sitting down on the edge of my bed. He patted my leg. "Hey, come on, let's talk."

I looked up at him and let out a sigh, sitting up.

"Whatever you're going to ask, the answer is I don't know."

"You know she just wants to help, Blaine. That's all we want."

"You can't help me, either of you."

He paused. "We can't help you because you refuse to let us. Graduation's in a few months, Blaine."

"I know."

"What are you planning to do about that? You can't live here with me forever." I was silent. "I'm not kicking you out," he told me, backtracking when he saw the look on my face. "You know you're always welcome here. But for your sake, and for mine as a brother, I just can't let you think it's okay to stay in this house and mope around and not make plans for your future."

I set my gaze on the wall, jaw tense. I swallowed back the tightness forming in my throat.

"You know I love you, B. I wouldn't have taken you in if I didn't, and I wouldn't be telling you this otherwise."

"No, I know – I know you do." I turned my head and looked at him, eyes glossy and swimming with tears. "And you've been so great. You dropped everything to take care of me and you got me through everything with our parents and Kurt leaving and I just—" I stopped, frustrated with myself because I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Taking care of you is my job."

"It shouldn't have to be. It wasn't fair of me to put that burden on you," I told him, hands clenched in my lap.

"_You_ didn't put anything on me, mom and dad did. You are not a burden, Blaine, don't ever think that. I love having you live here." He stopped for a moment, hesitating. "And I – I'm glad that I could be there for you… when Kurt left."

"Me too," I whispered, fingers immediately wiping the tears that dripped constantly from my eyelashes.

"And you have Rachel. She really loves you, you know."

"I know. I wouldn't have gotten through this without her, either."

"Okay, now think about this for a second: she stayed behind to help take care of you. I'm not saying that you're a child or that you should feel bad, because that's what friends _should_ do, but…" He let his words trail off. "I just want you to understand what she gave up. What she did was huge, B. Huge."

"I kn—"

"Don't tell me that you know," he interrupted, putting a hand in the air. "I just want you to listen for a minute, okay? It might sound harsh, but this is important. I'm not trying to be mean, I'm just being honest." When I stayed quiet, he took that as his cue to continue. "I don't think you actually understand what she did for you," he told me softly. "She's been over every single day since July and she's your best friend. And to be honest, she's kind of like a daughter to me at this point. You've known her since you were barely sixteen and you two have been inseparable for years now. And when Kurt left, she was there for you. She was really, really there for you. You're her number one priority, B. And I'd hate to think that you're putting her on the backburner because of what you're going through, but… I think you are."

"I don't know what you want me to say," I said in a thick voice as the tears continued to fall. I hastily wiped them away, angry and ashamed. I didn't want to cry in front of him, but I felt terrible. Was it because he was accusing me of such a thing? Or was it because I knew that what he was said was true?

"You go through periods. Sometimes, you're stuck to her like glue and then other times, you sit in silence while she speaks to you. She doesn't leave when you fall asleep, either, not all the time. We'll stay up and talk before she goes home, and let me tell you, I've learned a lot about that girl in the last few months. I know she may not act like it when you're around, because she wants to be strong for you, but Kurt hurt her, too."

"I know he did." I was still crying quietly, and with each thing he told me, I felt worse. There was a growing ache in my heart, because I was realizing that I was being an awful friend to her when she didn't deserve it.

"But does she let it stop her from living her life? Does she stay in her room and let it overwhelm her? No. She stays busy and she dreams. She wants New York, Blaine. She wants to live, but she won't go anywhere without you. She deferred her acceptance, and she can't do it again. So if you aren't willing to go come June, then she might lose her chance to go to NYADA."

At this point, I was sobbing. Partly because I knew he was right and partly because I didn't know what to do. I refused to look at him and put my face in my hands, my chest heaving.

"Hey, come here." He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. "I didn't mean to make you cry, B. Shh."

I felt ridiculous, the way I was acting. I was being selfish and childish, because this shouldn't be about _me_, this should be about Rachel and what I was going to do to be a better friend. But once again, I'd made it all about myself, and I knew that's all I had done since Kurt left. Everyone around me was just trying to help, and I continually pushed them away, and then let them back in, and then pushed them away again when I wanted to be alone. By shutting them out, I was making things worse for everybody involved, and it was wrong on so many levels.

"No, I – I needed – needed to hear t-that," I gasped out. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh, calm down."

He rubbed a hand up and down my back until I was able to compose myself. When I finally stopped crying, I pulled away in embarrassment.

"Sorry," I mumbled in a scratchy voice, looking down.

"It's okay. It's kinda my fault anyways." He wore a sad smile, and I let out a long breath, fingers picking at my comforter. "Do you know what you want to do?" he asked me gently.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Mom and dad always wanted me to be a lawyer. Or a doctor." The words burned on my tongue like acid; they weren't _mom and dad_. I didn't have parents, I never would.

"Okay, but what do _you_ want? You don't have to do what they say."

_You can go to New York and live your dream. You can go to college and major in music performance. You don't think you can do it, but I do. I believe in you, Blaine._

"I like music," I replied softly, remembering the words Kurt had wrote to me in his letter.

"Yeah?" Cooper prompted, smiling. "I always thought that's what you'd choose."

"It doesn't matter though. I'm not good enough. And it's too late. I missed the deadline to send in applications to those kinds of schools." I looked down, shaking my head. "Hell, I missed most of the deadlines for _any_ performance school."

"About that…" he began slowly. "What do you think of NYU? They have an amazing music and performing arts program."

"I'd never get in to a school like that, and especially not now."

"Actually, you already have." He looked at me with a sad smile. "You got in, Blaine."

I choked on the air I breathed in, sputtering with wide eyes. "W-what?"

"We filled out your applications and Rachel recorded you singing on the piano a few months ago. We sent it in, we wrote your essay, and I forged your signature. Technically, it's unethical and illegal, but I know where you belong, Blaine. You're not a lawyer or a doctor. You're an _artist_. You have a passion for music and I want you to pursue it."

"H-how? I – what? I got in?"

"They want you to go down for an interview obviously, but the lady on the phone sounded optimistic. It's next week. But it's pretty much a done deal."

"Oh my god." I put a hand to my forehead, in shock.

"She said she'd never seen so much passion and talent in a person of your age before, B," he told me.

"Yeah, well," I took in a breath, let it out. "The song was probably about Kurt."

I didn't know what else to say.

* * *

**April 26th – Blaine's Journal**

_I got into NYU._

_Rachel and I went to New York for my interview, and they accepted me. They're offering me a partial scholarship, so I have to cover the rest, but Cooper said he can help me._

_We're moving over the summer._

* * *

**July 18****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_I leave tomorrow._

_Tomorrow is also the year anniversary of Kurt being gone._

_I haven't seen him in eleven months and thirty days._

_The thought makes my heart ache._

_I can't think straight._

* * *

**July 19****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_It's three am and I can't sleep._

_The hardest part of it all of this is that going to New York means shedding my old life and beginning a new one. It means giving up on Kurt. It means giving up on __us__, and what we were supposed to become. Moving means letting go, and letting go means forgetting, and forgetting means saying goodbye to him forever and maybe I'm not ready to do that yet. I probably never will be. _

_Things weren't supposed to be this way. But they are. It was supposed to be me, Rachel, and Kurt against the world, not the world against me and Rachel. But it is._

_Everything is different now. There is no Kurt, there is no us, there is no future life together. All that's left is a future. And it's scary. It's terrifying to think of a life without him. I've lived that way for a year, and it's been the worst three hundred and sixty-five days of my life. I can't imagine going on this way for the rest of my life. Will it ever stop hurting?_

_A part of me thinks that I've just been holding onto the hope that one day he'd come home. I mean, it seems logical enough that I wanted so badly for Kurt to return that I didn't leave. I thought I wanted New York. Maybe I still do, I just can't tell anymore. I don't know how to want it without Kurt, because it was supposed to be __our__ dream._

_I went in for the interview at NYU because I needed to, because they wanted me to. Hopefully one day, I'll be glad that I did it. I have to take that leap and move to New York with Rachel, because I owe it to her and to Cooper. I'll try to be happy, I'll try as hard as I can. But I know four things for certain._

_1\. I won't forget Kurt._

_2\. I won't move on._

_3\. I will __always__ love him._

_4\. I'm absolutely terrified._

_How long can a person go on missing somebody? Can people die from heartache?_

_I wonder if I'll miss him forever._

* * *

**A/N: Please don't forget to comment and let me know what you think!**


	7. Chapter 5

**A/N: This is chapter is Kurt-centric and it follows him in his first few years in New York. The song referenced ("Empty Handed") is by Lea Michele, and while it will be brought up in a later part of the story, I feel like it adequately portrays the relationship that Blaine and Kurt had before he left. As always, I highly recommend that you give it a listen! Please review and comment!**

**Oh, and we meet Sebastian in this chapter. You'll hate me later.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: Mentions of depression, past character death, cancer, and attempted suicide.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Another Little Piece of Me**

_(Kurt, August 2012 – May 2014)_

* * *

"_**Know that I loved you. Know that it was not enough." **_**– Leigh Bardugo, Ruin and Rising**

* * *

If you ask the families of cancer patients, most of them will tell you that sometime near the end, they got a good day. A day where their daughter or aunt or brother wasn't sick, a reprieve from the routine of doctors appointments and pills and nights spent curled on the bathroom floor.

But in reality, it's not good day, not really, because it is simply a farewell hidden by the hope that maybe she's finally getting better like she's supposed to, an au revoir wrapped up in shiny paper and silver linings. It's a day where everyone feels the finality of it all, coming in through the windows and the doors to surround you and force you back into reality. It may leave you with memories you'll cherish forever, things you'll remember until you're gone, too, but it's also the last time you get to spend with her out of a hospital bed. Because when the sun comes up the next morning, all bets are off and suddenly, the cancer is spreading into her lungs and her bones and then soon, it's over.

It was as if there was a clock ticking over our heads, reminding me that it wasn't going to last. That she wasn't going to last. The last day I had with my mother is one of the last good days I remember having before I met Blaine, period. When she left, it was like she took me with her, leaving my body behind to carry out its life on autopilot.

_ 24 hours. 23 hours, 59 minutes. 23 hours, 58 minutes._ And on and on it goes. She sets up your tea set and eats pretend cookies with you in your backyard; you watch Cinderella, sandwiched in between her and your dad, her beautiful voice sounding throughout the house as she sings along; she does her hair and her makeup for the first time in months because she finally feels good enough. I'll never forget the conversation I had with her that night.

* * *

_ I sat on the edge of the tub, watching as she used brushes to apply the contents of the jars scattered across the counter to her eyelids, her cheekbones, her forehead._

_ "What's all that for?" I asked._

_ "This goes on your cheeks and it makes them pink like this," she told me, lightly pinching the skin around my dimples. "This is to make your eyelashes darker, and this is to make your lips darker." She held up a tube of mascara and deep red lipstick and when I wanted to hold them, she handed them to me. _

_ "Why do you wear it?"_

_ "Well, I guess it's to make me look prettier."_

_ "But you're already pretty," I said, tilting my head. "Even though the medicine makes you kinda sick. You're the prettiest mommy ever."_

_ "Thank you, baby." She moved away from the mirror and then sat down next to me, pulling me into her lap. I turned the make-up in my fingers, admiring it. "You know, beauty can be on the inside, too. It's not all on the outside."_

_ "It isn't?"_

_ "Not necessarily. It's like how you treat other people or how you see the world. Remember when we were at the hospital last month? When I was getting that clear liquid put into me?" I nodded. "You held my hand because you wanted to help me. That was beautiful. Or when your Daddy takes care of me when I'm feeling sick. Or even when my cousin Taylor wanted to become a boy, do you remember that? You were barely in Kindergarten, but you met him once. Oh, he loved you to pieces."_

_ "I think you explained that to me. You said that he was just born into the wrong body, right?"_

_ "Exactly. It must have taken a lot of courage to do that, don't you think?"_

_ "Yeah…" I trailed off, the frown on my face making my eyebrows crinkle. _

_ "What'cha thinking about up there?" she asked after a minute, and I paused._

_ "What about me? Was I born into the wrong body?" I glanced at the ground, going still in her arms as I held my breath. "The kids at school say I dress like a girl sometimes and that I talk like one and they called me that word that I told you about. So does that mean I'm supposed to be a girl?"_

_ She adjusted us so that she was able to look at me while she spoke._

_ "No, honey. Not unless that's what you want. Do you want to be a girl?"_

_ I scrunched my nose, shaking my head._

_ "Then it just means you're special. You're as much of a boy as any of them, you just happen to like things that a lot of girls do. And there's nothing wrong with that, because it's what makes you who you are, and that's my wonderful son. You're like a star in a sky full of asteroids, and one day, you're going to find someone who's going to appreciate your uniqueness. He's going to love you very much, like I do, and when you're a little older, you'll realize that love is the truest form of beauty in the world."_

_ "How do you know he'll be a boy? I thought I was supposed to marry a girl?"_

_ "Mommies just know sometimes," she replied. "You can marry whoever you want. Girl, boy, in between – as long as you're happy, that's all that matters. You deserve to be happy. And I'll always be in your heart if I can't be right next to you, okay? Remember that."_

_ As I tried to process this information, she pressed a kiss to my head, patting my arm. "Alright, Kurt. What color should I paint my nails? You wanna come help me pick out something?"_

_ And just like that, everything else was forgotten and I was eagerly hoisted up to the cabinet to choose a bottle. In the end, I picked a bright pink, and after I watched her finish her toes, I shyly asked if she could do mine._

_ "Of course. But only if you promise to sit still so it doesn't end up all over the floor, okay?"_

* * *

I still remember her funeral.

I remember holding my arms tightly to my chest, trying to keep the pieces of me from falling out.

I remember murmured promises of everything being alright and bodies wrapping themselves around me in hugs that I'd never wanted.

I remember thinking that the only person who ever really understood me – the only person who told me that there was nothing wrong with me, that assured me I was perfect the way I was no matter what the kids at school said, that let me dress up in her clothes and play with pretend tea sets – was gone.

I remember wanting to make the pain to go away but being six years off from figuring out how to do it.

I remember refusing to throw a handful of dirt onto her casket because it just seemed _stupid_, because I couldn't _throw dirt onto my mom's body_, because it made no sense how everyone else _could_.

But I don't remember crying. That came much later. Weeks after, when I came home with bruises on my shoulders and blood on my knees, and she wasn't there to clean it up or erase the cruel words that had started to eat away at my brain.

It was in the middle of August, with clear blue cloudless skies and the hot heat bearing down onto us. I didn't understand how it could be so warm outside when I felt so cold, or how the sky could be so pretty when the world seemed so ugly now, or how we all got to keep our lives when my mom had to lose hers. There were people all around me – grandparents and cousins and even her sister that she hadn't talked to in years – crying and holding onto each other like they couldn't bear to stand alone. My father was right next to me, only a foot away, but I felt alone. I was surrounded by my family, by strangers who I'd never met before, and even though they had all known my mom, it hadn't made the slightest difference. For the next nine years, nothing would.

I stood by her grave as they lowered the casket into the ground, the pink on my nails glimmering in the sunlight, wishing that somehow she could've taken me with her.

* * *

**August 14****th****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

_Before I left, I thought that with a lot of time and free will, I would be able to get over losing everyone but Blaine. If I was able to survive my mom dying, I should've been able to survive everything else. I lost my dad once, I'd lost him for most of my life, and I knew I could do it again if I had to. I'd lived sixteen years without knowing Carole or Finn, and if I told myself that I didn't need them, then I could forget them, too. What a horrible thing to think about your family, but I've never made connections easily, I didn't really understood what love felt like until I met Blaine, because I had to learn how to be alone – not by choice, but out of necessity. Even at eight years old, I knew that loving people could only end in heartache. They either died or weren't there when you needed them the most or they made fun of you for the pitch in your voice and the pink nail polish on your toenails._

_I knew that Rachel would be harder to forget, and I was right. I loved her as if she was my sister and she was the family I got to choose; it wasn't as simple as just erasing her from my memories. But I still thought that I could move on from her. And I can't, because as much as I try and try to let her go, I can't make her fade and god, I want to, but she won't leave. I can't force myself to forget her._

_I've always been acutely aware, from that very second I realized I had to leave, that I would never be able to stop loving Blaine. I've always known that. I've always accepted that. And I know I'm going to have to find a way eventually because I can't undo what I've done, but even if I could I wouldn't want to. I left to protect him, and no matter how painful it is for us now, I know I did the right thing. I didn't want him to settle. He deserves so much more than I can give him, and his life shouldn't be, "did Kurt hurt himself today?" He never would have left me, even if one day he decided that he didn't love me anymore. And that wasn't fair to him, to have to stay with me because I was the way I was. _

_We were just too young when we met. Our love shouldn't have been so intense from the beginning, not at our ages. Due to the lives we'd lived before we found each other, we were already grown up when I stopped him on that staircase. We knew what it was to hurt, to lose everything, to be forgotten, to be hated and beaten for who you were. What an unfortunate circumstance, but it was just the way things were. Every feeling, every emotion, every memory – it was all magnified because we knew that we were almost always on the brink of collapse, because we couldn't go through that kind of pain again. When we made love, towards the end, it was desperate and overwhelming and filled with so much tension that it felt like we were being shocked. Our hands were held together tightly, gripping onto each other so that we didn't lose ourselves, so that we didn't let go and give in to the current threatening to drag us under. We needed to remember those moments, when it was only bare skin on bare skin and gasps swallowed up by lips, so that we had proof that we were still __us__, that I was still Kurt and that he was still Blaine, because some days it felt like the sadness would never end. My sickness was changing us more with each passing second, the pain all-consuming and engulfing. We were buried beneath it and we couldn't breathe and __nothing__ we did could have saved us. We were simply too toxic. _

_And I couldn't stay with him if it was going to drain him and take away the light in his eyes and the crinkles in his smile. I was hurting him more than I was hurting myself, and I had to go. We were two pieces on the opposite end of the puzzle, and no amount of rearranging or desperate reconfiguring would have made us fit._

* * *

**August 16****th****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

_I've been thinking a lot about my mom lately._

_I wonder if she would have been disappointed in me._

* * *

**August 19****th****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

_It's been a month._

_And it hurts. It hurts a whole hell of a lot more than I thought it would. I feel like I'm being ripped apart in a million different directions, like my veins are being opened and my skin is being peeled off of my bones. I didn't think I would miss them as much as I do, didn't even really think about what I would do when I finally took myself away from them, and the pain I feel is crippling because nothing works. Nothing takes away the ache. I cut and I cut and I slice my skin up and the blood I see draining into the sink doesn't do __anything__. I'm_ _just_… _I don't even know what I am anymore. I'm just here. The one thing that should be able to put me back together isn't working. And I feel pain, but I feel numb, too. It's like I'm living underwater, the pressure clogging my ears and pressing down on my chest so that everything is distorted and out of focus. It doesn't feel real._

_I thought that I would be able to move on from them and destroy myself here, alone, but I was a fool to think such a thing. Because they are everywhere; in my thoughts and my dreams and written into the tiny cracks in my skin. And each time I turn a corner and see a memory of Blaine laughing or an image of Rachel on my bed, singing loudly along to the Wicked soundtrack, another little part of me falls out. I have left a trail of porcelain pieces with their names on them all across this city and I can't do it, I can't make myself forget them._

* * *

**August 23****rd****, 2012 – Kurt's Journal**

_I remember promising Blaine once that he wouldn't lose me, that he would __never__ lose me. So many people had turned around and walked out on him, and I told him that I wouldn't be one of them. But I was, and I'm a liar. _

_I made him that promise when things were different, when I wasn't thinking right. How could I tell him that? How did I know what would happen in the future? Even if I got better, there wasn't a guarantee that we would work out. It takes more than love to keep people together, and as twisted and unfair as it is, that's the truth. And that's my reason for leaving in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye and without leaving a note. I couldn't put him through that, couldn't make him beg and cry and hold onto me so that I couldn't walk out the door and break his heart._

_It's easier this way, with a clean break and no chance for Blaine to change my mind. Because I know he could have done it, and I couldn't give him that opportunity._

* * *

Eventually, I had to get a job. The money that I'd taken when I left was dwindling quickly, and because I hadn't bothered to send out applications to any colleges, it had to be something that didn't require a degree. The first place I applied to was at Café Metro, a local coffee shop, and within a day they'd called to let me know that I'd gotten the position. They said it didn't take much skill or experience to teach me to take orders and mix drinks, and because they were desperate for someone to work the counters, they needed me right away.

Right from the start, I worked long days and let them schedule me whenever they pleased. Working ten or twelve hour shifts several times a week became routine for me and I knew my way around that coffee shop better than I knew the back of my hand. I learned with a practiced ease exactly how to make the regular's orders and fell into step with the hectic seven am rush of customers. It was mindless, repetitive work that filled the time slots in my life, and it was something I had to do to survive, emotionally and financially. I wasn't there to make friends or form relationships with my coworkers because it just wasn't worth the effort or the trouble. I knew that I'd never be able to form _real_ friendships – nor did I particularly want to. I was fine living my life in solitude; I was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode and I didn't want anyone to be there when the fuse inevitably ran out. I wanted my past to stay tucked away in the depths of my own mind, not put out on display for the entire city to see, so I made sure to always wear long sleeves under my uniform. But on hot summer days, I knew people stared anyways.

After I'd saved a good portion of money, I was able rent out the smallest, cheapest apartment I could find. It was no bigger than the size of bedroom, with a tiny half-kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. I didn't eat much, and whether that was intentional or not, I'm not sure. I never really went anywhere other than work and because I didn't need cable, internet, or a phone, my bills at the end of each month were very low. All I desired was enough change in my pockets to run down to the nearest drug store to get a new packet of blades every few weeks. I didn't even write, not all that often. After my first few weeks in the city, it became too difficult for me because all it did was remind me of them, so I only picked up my journal on a particularly bad night.

I lived a very simple, reclusive life, and I was okay with that. It was something I'd grown used to.

* * *

I relished every moment that blood dripped from my body. I didn't care that I shouldn't do it because I needed to feel _alive_, and this was proof of that. If there was color coming out of me, if I could feel pain, then I wasn't dead. There was warm inside of me all along, I just needed to know where to look for it. I clawed to get to it, every day and every night, and it became a part of me so much that I didn't know where the blade began and where I ended. I justified what I did because I always took care of myself afterwards, with disinfectant and cream and gauze. The sharp string of the peroxide against the open, gaping wounds and the way the fabric rubbed against the new scars was a different kind of pain, but I liked that, too. I may have been a cutter, but I wasn't stupid. If the cuts got infected, I had to go to the hospital, and if I went to the hospital, they asked questions. I liked the feel of the blade, not the way the infection crawled through my veins.

To me, none of it mattered. The obsessive working, cutting, and starvation were extremely unhealthy habits – of course they were, and I knew that – but it had become my life. I could be as self-destructive as I wanted because there was no one there to stop me, and for that, I was grateful. If one day I accidentally cut too deep, then I just… ended up dead. That was it. It wasn't this horrible, awful, fearful thing, death. It was a welcoming thought, and I would often spend my nights debating in my head on whether or not the next day would finally bring an end to my suffering.

* * *

**March 9****th****, 2013 – Kurt's Journal**

_I wrote you a letter, you know. I never gave it to you because I __couldn't__. I knew that if I was to give you anything, that if I was to give you a goodbye, it would only make it harder in the long run for both of us. I would spend the rest of my life wondering if you ever read it, and you would do the exact same thing, wondering why I wrote it. I don't have reasons for leaving that would make sense to you, like the ones I wrote in my other letter for you when I tried to commit suicide. You told me that you'd spend every single day blaming yourself for __my__ actions, so why would I do that again? There's no way I could have convinced you of why I did what I did and I didn't want to hurt you more than I already had, so I just kept it. Well, I guess I kept it __from__ you is a better way to put it. It's sitting inside my mom's dresser with a flash drive taped to it, collecting dust as the months go on, I'm sure. There's a song I wrote for you, called "Empty Handed", and it's about everything you've done for me and everything I would do for you, still. We were both so broken, like the pieces of two completely different puzzles had somehow ended up in the same box, but we showed each other how to love. I may not have had much to give you, but I did my best to do everything in my power to make you happy and to give you a better life – which is why I left. I did it because I love you more than I love myself, even if you'll never understand._

_I'm sorry._

* * *

**June 3****rd****, 2013 – Kurt's Journal**

_I spent last night remembering all that we had done together. I don't know why this keeps happening, because I left last __July__. It's been almost a year, shouldn't it be getting easier? I feel like it's becoming harder to drag myself out of bed each morning, simply because I just don't feel like doing it anymore. I don't have the energy or the motivation to have to try so hard and I'm exhausted when I wake up due to the nightmares that keep me up all night. I'm trying so hard to forget you, I'm doing everything that I can, but I can never be busy enough to __not__ miss you._

_I went out to look at the stars, even if they're not exactly all that visible here. In a way, it's comforting, knowing that you're out there somewhere. It's the one thing we still have in common – this sky with so many twinkling lights staring down at us. But it's also the worst kind of pain __because__ I know you're out there, wherever you are. It would be so easy to just reach my hand up, pluck down the Little Dipper, and rearrange it in a way that puts us together again. In the same city, on the same path, in each other's arms so that I never, ever have to let you go. I once thought that we were written in the stars, slated to live out our lives as lovers because the universe had made it that way. Fate brought us together and the stars would __keep__ us together, no matter how silly that sounds. Desert travelers used to use them as a guide to get to their destinations, like a map of sorts, and I figured that it could be the same for us. We had so much in common with them. The stars are nothing more than grains of sand that washed up on our shore, dimming and fading as the years go on. People say their main purpose is to bring us light, but that can't be true because some have stopped giving that off thousands and thousands of years ago. Most of the stars in the sky are dead, it's just taking us a while to figure out which ones because they all seem to shine at night, so what becomes of them? We're like that – searching and stumbling through the world to find our reason for living, our reason to be together when we were so wrong. So what will become of _us_?_

_I'm not sure if I believe in fate anymore, or in the destiny of the stars. They misled us and we both ended up in two different places on two different planes of this Earth. Because of my foolish desires to believe in a superstition, a cliché, we are now erased from the webs of constellations in the sky. We no longer exist, and just like all of the millions of stars that cease to burn, we'll fade one day, too._

_I remember when I'd asked to go lie in the road with you, after we'd watched The Notebook. You said it was too dangerous so we went into the backyard as a compromise. But you aren't here to stop me anymore, so last night I did it anyways. At four am, I tiptoed out of my apartment and went to Central Park. I laid in the grass for about an hour before I worked up the courage to go plop myself down in the middle of a street and just lie there. It wasn't a main road or a very busy one – a mostly silent back-way street that was void of a lot of activity – but there was still that possibility of any car showing up and running right over me. The feeling of adrenaline, the rush of blood around my body, the pounding of my heart – these were the things that kept me there. It was so calm and everything was so still, and it reminded me of death and how it would feel to die. As I was looking up at the endless stretches of the night sky, with peace buzzing resignedly in me, I didn't think that it would be a bad way to go._

* * *

**August, 2013 **

Eventually, it was too much. In a fit of desperate anger, I had the blade ready, poised over my arm and waiting to mutilate and mangle and distort my skin as my final goodbye. I was grieving – for myself, for what I'd done to Blaine, for all the things that I'd lost in my twenty years. I was angry, more at myself or more at the universe for giving me this particularly awful life, I wasn't sure, and I needed to finally find a way for it all to end. I didn't exactly want to die, I just wanted to… fade away. Not be alive anymore. Go to bed one night and not wake up. I didn't think about it before, in Ohio, but I didn't like the idea of throwing my life away when my mom didn't get a choice in the matter. I thought it was selfish, because even though there was no one to stop me, she was still there, reminding me that she had never wanted to leave me. Her life was so cruelly and unfairly taken from her, from me, but if my life was just as cruel and unfair, did that justify my death?

I didn't know. But I did it anyways – or tried, rather.

I pressed the rip of the razor hard into the blue vein that stuck out against the paleness of my wrist, following it up my arm, sighing in immediate relief when everything started to flow out of me.

But then I heard her voice in my head.

_ You deserve to be happy. And I'll always be in your heart if I can't be right next to you, okay? Remember that._

She knew. She knew that things would be hard for me after she was gone. I don't know how, but she did, and she was telling me to be strong. She wanted me to be happy, she wanted me to remember that she would always be with me even after she was gone.

And then it was all of them in my head, their words playing over and over, memories that I'd tried so hard to forget because it had hurt too much. Except now they were giving me strength.

_ You can't keep doing this to yourself._

_ Sometimes you just hurt and you don't know what to do._

_ I know I'm not your mom, but I still love you and I hope that's okay._

_ We love you, Kurt._

_ I've always loved you. Always, from the day you were born. I just… I didn't know what to do after she died. And I know I have a lot to make up for, but I want to try._

_ It's okay to be tired. I've never told you that before, but it's okay._

I was frozen in place as the blood ran endlessly down from the gash, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt arms wrap around me – not necessarily Blaine's or Rachel's or my mom's, but all of them, enveloping me and telling me that I didn't have to do this. That I deserved to live, even after all I had done to them. That I was strong enough to start this march forward.

I started to cry, sobs building as my chest began to heave, and the blade slipped from my fingers.

I couldn't do it.

With blurred vision and pained breaths slipping through my clenched teeth, I pulled out my phone. I dialed 9-1-1 and waited for the operator to ask me what my emergency was.

* * *

That night changed everything for me.

Something inside of me was different. I still hurt, but I felt a strength that I'd never felt there before. I needed to clean up my life so that I could start taking those baby steps to getting better – on my own, not with drugs or therapists. I threw out all of the blades and razors I had in my house and knew that soon, I would have to fight the urge to buy more. I cut back my hours at work, allowing myself room to breathe and time to sleep and try to find myself all over again. I applied to Parsons – one of the most prestigious fashion design schools in the country – and when I got in, miraculously and almost unbelievably, I realized that I could follow my dreams. I'd never allowed myself to envision myself as a fashion designer, but that was a possibility for me now.

I began in the spring term and it was like I was a different person – still a little withdrawn with walls around me to keep people away, but I had a newfound determination coupled with an audacious, daring attitude. I was hardened, but I expected that. But being toughened and wounded by my previous experiences didn't mean that I wouldn't succeed at school. If anything, it meant the exact opposite.

* * *

I knew that if I wanted a completely fresh beginning I needed to let go of my past – and the people in it. So I decided to get it all out the only way I knew how: by writing. I let my hand wander, scribbling out anything that came to mind, whether it was a poem or a quote or a memory. I needed this to be my version of a goodbye to everything that I had once been so that I could make room for a new person. This was my last chance to be free and I needed to take it.

For hours and hours I scratched and scrawled out the words that I had trapped under my skin. It was a torturous thing to do, writing down all the things that I had spent my whole life running from. These were the thoughts that woke me at four in the morning, gasping for breath with tears spilling from my eyes; that caused me to walk by bridges and wish that I could just _jump_; the reason scars crossed on my body, leaving rows of "X's" because I had no room anywhere else. These words and sentences and punctuation marks were my memories, my story – and everything that had ever happened to me could be summed up and rewritten with just twenty six letters.

I wrote from deep down inside of me, like I was gutting myself and laying the fibers that made up my soul on an unmarked piece of paper. I was breaking down and letting the flood loose that had spent so many months building up, trying to escape. With each paragraph I wrote, with each day I recounted and each page I filled, I felt like I was taking away a piece of me. I was filled with placeholders – vacant of everything, bare and cold. But only for a moment, because I could feel the tiredness inside me subsiding as the spaces began to grow into each other, leaving not emptiness but blank slates for me to write on. Places in me where I could re-create myself.

I picked my head up and set my pen down, having finally written the last word, and I _smiled_. I let my fingers hold the page, my thumb running softly over the ink.

_ I remember you telling me, when we were lying in the grass in my backyard, that the best love is the kind that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds. It's something Noah said to Allie, and that was __our_ _thing. That was __our__ movie, filled with quotes about __us_._ They loved each other like we did – completely and fully. Even so, they were toxic, just as we were. Their love wasn't enough, and neither was ours. Our stories are similar, though set in a different time and place, and while they didn't stitch their pain into their bodies or have parents that scarred them in irreparable ways, the premise is still the same. Sometimes, you need to leave in order to do what's best. Sometimes, things aren't meant to be, and it's okay to admit that. Sometimes, you need to move on and see what the future holds because you never know what might happen. They found their way back to each other, and maybe we will too, one day. When I'm better and not broken, when you'll tell me that it wasn't over, that it never was. We'll kiss and you'll ask me to stay, and I will. Maybe I'll leave again, and you'll let me go because you know I'll always come back. Because you know I'm a bird._

_ But I can't wait for that day, because it might never happen. Hell, it probably won't. So I need to do what's best for me, and I can't do __this__ anymore. I can't sit in this apartment and remember you and my dad and Rachel and my mom and slice my outside so it matches my inside. I'm done with hurting and bleeding and crying. I left to protect you, and now I need to heal me. _

_ You told me that I had put a fire in your heart and brought peace to you, like Noah said. And when I was ready to end it all, I heard you. And I heard everyone, telling me that you loved me and that I was strong, that I was brave. And I believed you all. I don't know why, but I did. So I let the blade fall from my hands and I called 911 and I let them take me to the hospital. Even when you're not here with me, you save my life. Over and over, you save me. You've put a determination in me, and your love has changed me forever._

_ I'll think I'll be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or next month, but eventually._

Rather than putting my energy into hurting myself, I threw everything I had into my schooling. I was the best in my class and that motivated me to do better, push more, work _harder_. I maintained straight A's through my entire first semester at Parsons – my second year in New York, away from Blaine – which wasn't easy. Being at such an esteemed, competitive school had its consequences, but I wanted to prove to myself that their faith in me wasn't for nothing.

I tried not to cut and did a good job of distracting myself whenever I wanted to. Each time I would sit on the bathroom floor with the blade clenched between my hands, I would think of Blaine and those same words I'd heard him say when I almost killed myself, and of my mother and what she'd told me on her last day. I would cry because I wanted to feel the tear of my skin as it was sliced, the drip of the blood on the tile, but I never did it.

I had to stay strong, and I didn't need a razor to do that.

* * *

I still didn't interact with anyone or make friends, just like I hadn't at my job. I was closed off, mistrustful, guarded – pushing people away with snarky comments and sarcastic remarks because I didn't want anyone getting too close. I wasn't comfortable with people, and I didn't think that would ever change. My past experiences had taught me to be careful, and I knew I could never replace Blaine or Rachel in my heart. I was content with solitude and I thought I would be able to live the rest of my life alone.

But then I met Sebastian, and well, everything changed.

* * *

On the day we met, he accidentally bumped into me on his way to the subway. If I had been just two feet to the left, or five seconds late, or if I had let it go and not yelled at him, then the rest of my life would have played out differently.

I still don't know which I would have preferred – for it to have happened the way it did, or for me to have gotten the chance to change where I had been at that exact moment. They say everything happens for a reason, don't they?

* * *

**May, 2014**

"Do you not have _eyes_?" I spit out furiously, mouth hanging open as the coffee that had previously been in my hand dripped down the front of my shirt. It was a fresh cup, scalding hot, and when he ran into me, I'd dropped it quickly to avoid burning my hand.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," he said immediately, pulling a napkin from his bag and wiping the front of my shirt hesitantly. I took a step back, pinching the bridge of my nose, and his arm fell limply against his thigh. I took a deep breath and put a finger out in the air in front of me.

"Don't touch me. And all you're doing is rubbing the stain in deeper."

"I was just trying to help. I didn't realize I couldn't be nice," he told me defensively, rolling his eyes.

"You have no right to be rude," I retorted, annoyed, looking up to see that his entire posture had changed. Rather than being apologetic and open, he was now standing with his arms crossed and his hip cocked. "You were the one who knocked _my_ coffee over onto _my_ new shirt. And, in case you weren't aware, this is Alexander McQueen." I walked angrily over to the trashcan and threw the cup away.

"I would apologize again but I know you would just ignore it and say something else sarcastic."

I didn't expect him to follow me, so I was a bit surprised when I heard his voice next to me. I yanked a wipe from my satchel, furiously cleaning the coffee off of my arms.

"At least you're perceptive," I mumbled quietly, not even pausing to look up at him.

"Perceptive enough to know that you obviously don't know how to interact with other humans," he returned.

"No, I just don't know how to interact with obnoxious strangers who bump into me and then expect me to be all happy and forgiving and 'let's-be-friends'."

"Why on Earth would anyone want to be friends with someone like you?"

"You don't even know me," I told him, voice low and cold. "You don't know anything about me. You have no idea what I've been through, so I'd be careful with what I said to the next stranger you want to talk to. Your words have more of an effect than you probably want to know."

"It's a two way street, sweetheart." He shoving past me, and then turned around with an irritated glare. "Oh, and for your information, I know who McQueen is," he snapped. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were stupid, just rude and arrogant," I shot back with a smile, tilting my head.

"Is there a reason you have to be such a bitch?" He flung his arms out, standing on the sidewalk with a scowl on his face.

"Is there a reason _you_ think you have a right to be upset with _me _for getting pissed that _you_ just ruined my outfit?" I stopped wiping, letting out a breath as I shoved the wipe in the garbage can.

"Honey, that outfit was ruined long before I showed up. I did you a favor by spilling that coffee all over your shirt. At least now it matches those pants."

I stood, nostrils flaring, and then stepped closer to him.

"Look, asshole. I know you probably do this sort of thing all the time, but I don't, okay? I'm wasting my breath standing here talking to you, and I have places to be, so if you'd get out of my way, I'd really appreciate it. I don't need to hear your words in my head tonight when I'm trying not to – " I paused, shaking my head. "I just don't need to hear your opinion of me, okay? I'm sure it's exactly what I think, anyways." I straightened my bag on my shoulder, exhaled loudly, and walked around him. Before I could fully get away, he grabbed my arm.

"Wait."

"Didn't we establish that you're not allowed to touch me?" I said in disbelief, yanking it free, shocked that he'd stopped me.

"I'm sorry," he began, sighing. "At least let me buy you a coffee since the one you had ended up all over your clothes."

"Which was your doing."

"Fine," he agreed, huffing. "Yes, I did it. Yes, I'm sorry. Now can we go? I know this really amazing café down the street and I was on my way there before I ran into you."

"What's your angle?" I narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing him.

"I don't have one. I'd just like to take another attractive guy out – although I'm slightly more good looking, but that's not your fault, you can't help it – for coffee so I can apologize to him and talk to him and see what his deal is."

"And you expect me to say yes," I stated slowly, confusion spreading over my features.

"I do."

"What makes you think I'd give you the time of day after the way you just insulted me and my outfit?" I set one foot out, putting a hand on my hip.

"I also said you were attractive. And I said I was sorry."

"You _also_ spilled coffee all over me."

"Which is why I'm going to buy you another one."

"And if I say no?" I asked, crossing my arms and raising my eyebrows.

"You won't."

"So you really are gay," I stated, shaking my head as I laughed. "Well, you could've fooled me."

"No, I'm a straight guy that asks random guys to go out on coffee dates with me," he replied, rolling his eyes with a smile. "Of course I'm gay. How else would I have known that sweater was Alexander McQueen?"

"That's offensive and very stereotypical."

"But you know it's true."

For the first time, I really _looked _at him. He was tall and lean, but not awkwardly so. He had on a pair of tight denim skinny jeans with a grey t-shirt that dipped down to reveal part of his chest. A blue cardigan hung on his shoulders, with a small pocket on each side. His light brown hair was styled up and to the side in a coif, similar to mine, and his eyes were sea-green. The patches of stubble on his chin made me assume that he probably hadn't shaved since yesterday, and I had come to the conclusion that he was indeed very, very attractive.

I don't know what had changed in the last fifteen seconds, whether it was him or me or both of us, but something was different.

"Fine," I said, hitching my bag up on my shoulder. "But I reserve the right to leave when you start being an asshole again."

"Deal. I'm Sebastian, by the way."

"Kurt."

"After you, _Kurt_," he responded dramatically, sweeping his arm out in front of him. And then he smiled at me and I kept walking even though I didn't have the slightest idea where the coffee house was.

* * *

**A/N: Please let me know what you think! I missed your guys' feedback in the last chapter!**


	8. Chapter 6

**A/N: I'm so, so sorry I couldn't post last week! I was caught up in a million exams and I didn't want to post a chapter that was unfinished or not how I wanted it to turn out. But it's here now, finally! This shouldn't happen often, so I should be back to posting weekly for the foreseeable future.**

**The two songs in this chapter are ****Stop and Stare**** by One Republic and ****To Build a Home****, the Patrick Watson/Cinematic Orchestra version. As always, I recommend that you listen to all of the music featured in this story, but To Build a Home is probably one of the song's I'd recommend the most because of the intensity and the meaning of the lyrics.**

**I hope everyone has a great Mother's Day! (And I know I'm not your mom but it would make my day even better if you took the time to tell me what you thought about this chapter! I appreciate everyone who takes the time to give constructive criticism or comments!)**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to suicide, depression, and past child abuse.**

**As a note: I need to make it extremely clear that I do NOT agree with many of the things Blaine says/thinks in this chapter. Under any circumstances, I do not believe self-harm is a way to make things better, nor do I believe that pushing your feelings away will do the same. Please, if you're struggling with anything like this, talk to someone you trust and get help. I promise you that it will be worth it.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: A House Is Not A Home**

_(Blaine, August 2013 – May 2014)_

* * *

"_**That was the thing. You never got used to it, the idea of someone being gone. Just when you think it's reconciled, accepted – someone points it out to you, and it just hits you all over again, that shocking." – **_**Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever**

* * *

**August 8****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_I hate this city. I hate everything about it._

_I hate the noise. I hate the lights. I hate the people. I hate how busy it is, like everyone always has somewhere to be. Like everyone's in a hurry to get to where they're going. What's so goddamn important that you have to drive through stop signs and run across the road in traffic and bustle down the streets in your dresses and heels and suits with your briefcase in your hand or your bag hitched over your shoulder with such a determination, such a __purpose__, as if you actually think that every day is some kind of freaking competition? Why does everyone care so much? It's not going to matter how much money you had or the kind of clothes you wore or how far up you were in that hot-shot lawyer corporation that you spent years at, sitting at a desk and slaving away for a chance to feel like you've made something of yourself. Not in the end, not when you'll be dead and in the ground and just a blip in life's map of the universe, because you will have just been __ordinary__, blinded by money and greed and sex and doing everything you could to get to the top. The people in this city? They're nothing but sheep, being herded into buildings and taxi's and nightclubs, letting everyone else make a coat out of them while they stand by and pretend to be oblivious to the sound of the razor._

_Life is not a race. There's not some great destination, that There everyone spends their whole life searching for. It doesn't exit. There is no "there", because when you finally get to it, it just becomes Here. And then Here becomes Home, and it's not new or exciting anymore, and one day, it will be boring and you'll leave and go find somewhere else to become your Here. You'll do it again. Over and over._

_But you know what does exist? Now. And the next second after that, and the minute after that, and the days and weeks and innumerable amount of years after that, they're all one long unfortunate strung-together mess of Now's. There is no future, because only a fraction of a moment ago, it was the present and we were all equally as scared. None of us really know how to navigate this maze, this Merry-Go-Round that spins around and around in endless perfect circles with no intention of ever stopping or letting you off somewhere that matters. There's no way to get out of this… tangled web that life is. We're all trapped._

_And I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to be doing, because I'm lost and I don't belong here. I stand in the middle of Times Square and feel completely alone and I walk down W 34__th__ street and I know that I am utterly and entirely nothing like these people. I know I'm different. I always have been, except when I was with him, when I was maybe just a little bit normal. A little bit ordinary, like everyone else, but with someone that could make me feel anything but._

_It's been 385 days and tomorrow it will be 386 and I will still be right where I am, burning holes in the ground as I walk back and forth between that carousel and this apartment._

* * *

**August 13****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_It's 12:58 and I'm trying to come up with a list of reasons as to why I shouldn't get out my blade._

_Everything's hitting me at once and it's not even just Kurt anymore, it's my father and all of the kids that ever hurt me and it's all of the things I'm __not__ and it's the fact that I can't fathom ever loving myself or being worth enough to love again after everything I've been through. I hate who I am and I hate how weak I've always been, terrified of disappointing my parents and not having my father's approval even though I knew I would never get it. I was ready to shove who I was deep down inside me where I'd never be able to get to it when they found out I was gay, but that didn't matter. I could have fucking slept with a girl at that point, could have eventually settled down and married one and had children and went into business like he wanted, and it wouldn't have made a difference. All I would have gotten was a nod and a "don't you forget who got you here" because he never wasted an opportunity to remind me exactly what he was capable of. And even at 14, I knew perfectly well._

_He hit me before that night. It wasn't often, but he did it. I was 12 the first time it happened, when I spoke back after he told me to go to my room and change out of my "ridiculous clothes." I remember the way his hand felt against my cheek, the fear I felt as he pressed his fingers into my shoulders and shoved me against the wall, the hysteria in his eyes as he whispered that if I ever repeated what had happened, I would be sorry. _

_After that, it was periodically, like when I wasn't doing as well in school as he wanted or when I said that I loved music or when I was being too "girly". I just needed to man up, he said after I came home one day with bruises and scrapes all up and down my body. Then maybe I wouldn't get beat up. It got to the point where I was terrified to come home whenever I was hurt because I knew how he would react. And Sadie Hawkins was the breaking point, because he refused to even look at me for weeks and he didn't even pay for my goddamn surgery. And then he heard me talking to Cooper and that was it, all of his anger came surging out of him and that was when I started keeping count of how many times I'd almost died in my life._

_I've considered suicide many times: before I came out was the first time, but honestly, the thought has stayed in the back of my brain ever since Kurt left._

_I tried twice: shortly after I was put into Cooper's care and then in Ohio with the glass._

_I was put into the hospital twice, not due to my own hand: after the dance, and after that night with my father._

_Death and I have a very personal relationship, as it turns out._

_I don't know why I'm writing all of this because I've written it all before but I can't let it sit inside me anymore because if I do, it's going to tear me apart and I'm gonna wanna do something so much worse than just cutting. I've been here for less than a month and it's already this bad and I don't know what I'm supposed to do._

* * *

**August 14****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_I did it. It's on my thigh so Rachel won't see it._

_I was up for hours, pacing in my room and trying everything I could to convince myself that I didn't need to do it. But I did need it. _

_It's a small one, but it helped. It let some of the pressure out of me and maybe I'll be able to live like this, making a few small cuts every other week or so to get by. It's getting bad again and it's the only way I knew how to make the hurt stop._

* * *

**August 25****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_I started at my new job today. _

_It's time I start paying my share because I can't let Cooper pay for everything anymore. He already put more than enough down on our apartment and bought me that console piano the second week we were up here. I told him that I was fine with just my guitar, but he said that I already looked too sad after having gone for only ten days without playing. I didn't have the heart to tell him the real reason for my unhappiness. I suppose he's right, in a way, because I __was__ sad without it. But only because all my feelings were festering inside me, because music is only a side effect of Kurt, really._

_I work in the music program __at the Manhattan Children's Center, and it feels nice to finally be able to do something useful for once. I want to help these kids and teach them a healthy way of getting their feelings out so they don't end up like me, getting lightheaded as they run between the piano and the blade and writing and bottling everything up._

_It's a good distraction._

* * *

**August 29****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

Stop and Stare by Blaine Anderson

_This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us_  
_It's time to make our move, I'm shaking off the rust_  
_I've got my heart set on anywhere but here_  
_I'm staring down myself, counting up the years_

_Steady hands, just take the wheel_  
_Every glance is killing me_  
_Time to make one last appeal_  
_For the life I lead_

_Stop and stare_  
_I think I'm moving but I go nowhere_  
_Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared_  
_But I've become what I can't be, oh_

_Stop and stare_  
_You start to wonder why you're here not there_  
_And you'd give anything to get what's fair_  
_But fair ain't what you really need_  
_Oh, can you see what I see?_

* * *

**September 3****rd****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_It's been one year, one month, and two weeks since I've seen Kurt._

_And I'm dealing._

* * *

**September 16****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_I can't help that think that my father would've enjoyed this. He would have reveled at seeing me in pain, especially at the hands of another boy, like some kind of sick masochist._

_He told me once, on that awful night, that I deserved to die. And I've come to terms with that, I guess, because it doesn't make me upset when I think about it. My father and I, we have some common ground now. If nothing else, we both don't think very much of me, and that counts for something, doesn't it?_

_He was right all along, I just didn't see it until now. Shame, considering I can't just go and off myself anymore. Maybe back in Ohio, but not here. I have appearances to keep up and leaving a trail of blood across the carpet to the bathroom would kind of be a cause for concern. So I suppose I'll just have to live with it._

* * *

**October 19****th****, 2013 – Blaine's Journal**

_456 days._

_I've been here for exactly three months and I can't stand it. Everything reminds me of __him__. I didn't think anything could be as bad as Ohio, but I was wrong, because his face and his words and his memories, they are written into this city. Into its cracks, its buildings, its people. I see his tall form and his dark hair on the subway; I see his eyes on one of the posters advertising a show in the terminal; I hear his bright, melodious laugh as I'm walking up the steps. Over and over and over, I am remembering Kurt, re-making him out of the pieces I'm given each day. It's like he's here with me, but I know he isn't, and the same thing happens every time._

_I stop, freezing where I'm at. My breath catches in my throat, chokes me on its way out. My heart begins to pound and I have to close my eyes and focus on my breathing. And then I put one foot in front of the other and I keep going and shove my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking._

_Like I said. Dealing._

* * *

From the moment I moved to New York, I knew that I was wandering aimlessly, living in the hope that someday it wouldn't hurt anymore. I kept waiting and waiting and waiting, like I had been since that first day he left, for my heart to move on so that the rest of me could too. But as I ticked off the weeks on my calendar, I began to realize that nothing ever changed. The pain never got better and it never got worse. It was just _there_, silently but steadily drowning my lungs with the memories of Kurt and what we were supposed to be. I was still trying to adjust to life without him, and even though it had been more than a year, I wasn't ready to let go of _us_. I couldn't. I couldn't handle the _thought_ of him not being there at my college graduation because I knew how much it hurt to not have him there the first time, or of him not standing up at the altar with me on my wedding day, or of not having the house with the picket fence and the dog and two kids. There were dreams that I still desperately wished could come true, things that he needed to _be there_ for, like he promised. I refused to accept the reality, which was that he _wouldn't _be there for any of those milestones. From the second he disappeared from my life, we became nothing more than a pile of missed moments, like endless streams of undeveloped film. Moving on wasn't an option for me, and in all honesty, I was beginning to think that maybe it never would be.

But then I found an out. An insane, laughable, _absurd_ way out of all the grief and the hurting.

I took it.

* * *

On a night sometime around the end of October, I couldn't help but wonder (for what felt like the hundredth time) what it would've been like if he'd never left. And instead of pushing the thoughts out of my mind like I usually did, I let them happen: Kurt and I giggling in our bed, Kurt's hair and face products scattered across our countertops, Kurt thanking me with a kiss as he graciously took the Grande Nonfat Mocha from my hands. With each picture, it felt like reality was dropping an anchor on me, weighing me down with the realization that those wishes and wants would never see the light of day. They would stay tucked away forever, hidden from the world for only me to see. And I knew that. I'd always known, always. At least that's what I told myself so that I could get out of bed every day without feeling like the breath was being knocked out of my lungs each time I thought about him.

But that time, it felt different. As my eyes roamed around our living room from my place on the couch, I was able to pretend that he was there with me, nestled into my side with his arms on my chest. I could feel the thrum of his heartbeat, the warmth of his breath on my neck, the weight of his body on mine. It all felt so incredibly real, and in my mind, it was. It had to be, because I needed to pretend that things were okay, that he never left me, that we still had infinite days filled with laughter and happiness together. That he was still there to fight with and to comfort and to clean up when he relapsed, because a hundred painful moments together was better than this one, unbearable moment apart.

And for a little while, I was content to lay there with my eyes closed, imagining the life we could have had together.

* * *

After that, I gave in and let it consume me. It was simply easier than facing than the harsh reality of what I had become, and I was desperate to escape the way I'd lived for so long, just drowning in him as if my feet were rooted into the ground. I was sick of the nightmares and the steadily growing row of cuts on my thigh and the crying at night, so it became like second nature because it was an escape from it all. My denial was something I wore as a new skin, allowing the illusion to creep and crawl through me until it was the air I breathed and the blood flowing through my veins.

Nobody ever thinks about what happens when somebody's girlfriend or boyfriend or lover leaves. They assume that once they're gone, that's it, you need to move on and let everything go. And those who can't, they're marked as dramatic and crazy and pathetic, pitiable creatures who merely want the sympathy and attention they're given by those who actually decide to _see_ them.

It never made much sense to me, as I looked around and watched everyone romanticize Romeo and Juliet but fail to understand when people love just like they did – passionately and desperately and with everything they have. And I grew up in a society that seemed to glorify self-harm and isolation, but it was never once beautiful. It was never heroic or brave or any of the million other things that the media taught me when I was so young. It was horrible and ugly and it made me sick when I did it. And loneliness isn't valiant or desirable; it's lonely and its painful.

But in spite of all that, people like Kurt and I, we were still villainized. Because no one knew what it was like to be _broken _and to hate yourself and to have been beaten by your father and almost killed at the hands of so many for just being who you were. They didn't know what it was like to lose your mother at eight years old and then to lose your father right after and to be bullied for your entire life and to look in the mirror and be disgusted with what you see. They didn't know what it was like to find a beautiful boy on a staircase and finally feel like somebody loves you, like somebody cares, and to fall in love with him in a hundred different ways. They didn't realize that he was so much more than just a boyfriend to me, that I wasn't crying and hurting myself because I didn't have somebody to kiss goodnight or hold hands with.

I was so distraught because his leaving meant that everything my father had ever told me was confirmed in an instant. It meant that he was right, that I was never worth enough for someone to stay. It meant that nobody else would ever understand that raw need to cut like he did, because we were both in such a dark place and he just _got it_. I wasn't always cutting to die, and most of the time, I honestly wasn't. I just needed to let it out because it felt like I had something living in me, scratching at my insides and clawing at my veins. It meant that all of those negative thoughts of my father's hands and of kids' cruel words and of the urge to feel my blood draining would come back at night because he wasn't there to keep it away.

We met at the best and the worst time possible. On one hand, if we hadn't met, we both could have very well ended up committing suicide. But on the other, because of the pasts that we were never able to shake, our relationship was so consumed with pain that we became so dependent upon each other. We moved unbelievably and connected so immediately and looking back, I can recognize that it was unhealthy.

But none of it mattered, really, because he left regardless. I had to deal with my pain alone and I did what I thought would keep me away from suicide. If deluding myself and ignoring the thoughts of my father and actively assuming that Kurt was just out and not gone forever was what helped me survive, then that's what I would do.

* * *

As fall passed into winter and the snow began to stick to the ground, it became suddenly apparent to me that Rachel was moving on. In the year that she'd stayed in Lima with me while I finished out school, I knew that she'd been working on coming to terms with what had happened. When I was shoving it all away, she'd been letting it all in, choosing to work through her grief. I realized by the time summer hit, before we even left for the city, that she was okay again, but it wasn't until she got a job at a local diner and started making new friends that it really sunk in. She met these two kids from school, Dani and Elliot, and they seemed nice enough, after I was dragged along to go out with them for a night.

But it just wasn't my thing, the friends or the going out, so I told her that I was always busy – which, to be fair, was true. I _was_ always busy, because I threw everything I had into my schooling. I was getting a Bachelor's in Music Performance at NYU; it required a lot of time and effort to succeed. I was determined to start building a name for myself so that one day I would be able to put an album out and make a career out of music like I'd desperately wanted.

As always, writing was still a form of release for me and I continued to do it. I felt closest to Kurt when I was lying on my bed at night, hands furiously scribbling out the words that were tucked away under my skin. My notebook was filled with several dozen of pages lined in confessions, lyrics, and scratched out sentences, because when I got the urge to cut – which was often – I would lock myself in my room and force myself to pick up a pen. I'd only resorted to the blade a few times since October, but after I decided to push it all away and ignore the pain, it got a little easier to get out of bed every day and go on with my life.

Making the conscious effort to not think about everything left me with a lot of pent up energy and anxiety, so I took up running. It was an odd choice for me, but I knew I was a decent athlete – at least good enough for a jog every now and then. I started going a few times a week, but then it became a habit so much that it was an everyday occurrence for me. Sometimes, when it was really bad, I would spend my nights running aimlessly around the city, my feet pushing me from bridge to bridge. For hours, I would memorize the sidewalks and the streets of New York, doing my best to make the noise in my head disappear. I was quite literally running away from my problems because occasionally, ignoring the bad thoughts was a lot harder than I expected it to be. I never knew where I was going or why, but then it hit me.

I was looking for Kurt.

And not just then, but always, whether I was running or going to class or writing, I was looking for him. I held my breath at every corner, hoping to turn and find him. I slept curled up, waiting to feel his strong arms slide around me and his warm chest against my back. I would go out to the balcony at night, staring up at the stars that were clouded with the pollution of the city, searching the constellations I'd had memorized as I tried to make sense of everything that had happened. And even though I knew I would never get an answer or find him, that didn't stop me from trying.

I didn't know if I ever would. Because even though I shoved all of the feelings away, they were still there, building and festering inside me until they decided to come spilling out of the bullet holes that I'd simply covered with a band-aid.

* * *

It took until May of 2014 for Rachel to finally decide that she'd had enough. She was done with me skirting around my problem and I couldn't blame her. But when there was a knock on the door one day and I opened it to Cooper's sad, knowing smile, I knew I was in trouble.

"What's going on?" I said, the words thick and heavy in my throat as I looked between my brother and Rachel, who was making her way over to us.

"We're worried about you," she answered bluntly. "So he's staying for a couple of days."

"What about work?" I asked dumbly, fingers flexing on the handle.

"I got someone to cover and I'm a call away if they need anything. Don't try and change the subject, B. We need to talk."

"No we don't."

"Blaine, come sit down and let him in."

I could feel my hands shaking at my sides, the panic thrumming through me as the dread set in. I opened and closed my fists, my eyes shifting around the living room as my feet started to bounce like they did whenever I got nervous. When I didn't move, she gently took my arm and led me over to the couch. Cooper set his bag on the ground and shut the door behind him.

"Please don't," I told him as he started walking towards us. "Just – stay there."

I saw the surprise on his face (because I'd never refused his company, not even in Ohio) but he carefully masked it into a steady, unyielding concern.

"Whether I stand by the door or sit next to you, we're having this conversation. I can stay here if it makes you more comfortable, but this is happening, B. Okay? Please just let us help you."

"I don't need help."

"It's been almost two years," Rachel replied softly.

"And?"

"We love you too much to watch you do this to yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, brushing off her words. My heart was beginning to pound as Cooper pulled up a chair in front of us, sweat beginning to gather at the base of my spine. I felt trapped, like I was being closed in on all sides with no way to escape.

"Blaine."

"What?" When the word came out more harshly than I intended it to, I sighed and shut my eyes. "What, Rachel?" My voice was quiet, tired.

She took my hand in hers, lacing our fingers together and bringing them to her cheek.

"Blaine, I need you to listen to me, okay?" she started, voice cracking. When I didn't respond, she let out a small breath. "Blaine, please. Don't make me do this."

"I'm not making you do anything."

"Honey, you've got to stop this," she said after she took a deep breath. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. Watching you play this – this _game_, it hurts me. For the first few months out here, it was obvious you were hurting. I didn't push the subject because you were adjusting and I knew how hard it was to be in this city without him. I thought that maybe New York was triggering you and I figured that it would eventually stop and that you would slowly start to move on. But you haven't. In July, it'll have been two years since he left, and you're still not _dealing_ with it." She finished the last sentences slowly, spacing it out as she fumbled with what to say. I pointedly looked in the other direction when her gaze settled on me. "You know what I'm trying to say. Do you understand? Do you get it?"

"No," I said, almost inaudibly, after a moment. My answer surprised her.

"Blaine, you need to move on. You need to let him go," Cooper interjected. "This isn't healthy. You won't be alone, you'll still have us and –"

"_No_," I repeated fiercely.

"This is only gonna make it worse for you in the long run, B."

"You don't know what I'm going through," I spit out, anger thrumming in my veins. "You don't know what is or isn't good for me."

"Then help us understand," she pleaded desperately. "You don't ever talk to us and you're bottling up your feelings and we know how that ends. I don't see how you pretending that nothing's wrong is going to make it any better for you. And I don't see how packing your schedule so much that you're making yourself sick is going to help. You don't ever sleep, you get up at five every morning to run, you go to school and then to work and when you come home all you do is homework. I know you're trying to stay busy to keep your mind distracted, but you're going to have to come to terms with this, Blaine. You can't ignore it forever."

"And who says I can't?" I replied sharply. "I'm doing just fine, aren't I?"

She looked at me with a heartbroken expression, gripped my hand harder. "No, Blaine. You aren't." I swallowed and looked away. "I don't – I don't know how to help you," she whispered, voice thick. "I've tried everything I can think of and none of it makes a difference. I've been avoiding talking to you about this because I knew how upset you would get with me, but you _keep_ bringing him up. I don't even think you know you're doing it most of the time. You have a pile of scarves that you can never give him, Blaine. You've wasted hundreds of dollars on coffee that he'll never drink. You – you act as if he's just out, when he's _gone_—"

"I just wanted to be happy," I exhaled, suddenly ashamed. "That's all I wanted."

"You think what you are is _happy_?" She looked at me with tears in her eyes. "How is pretending that none of this happened going to make you happy?"

"I thought that if I _acted_ happy, that – that maybe I could _be_ happy." I looked down, the fingers on my right hand trembling in my lap as the tears began to sting behind my eyes and the tightness in my throat made it hard to speak. "You know how if you tell someone something enough then they start to believe it? I pretended that everything was okay and I hoped that it eventually would turn out that way. It's _so_ hard to be here, like gut-wrenchingly, indescribably painful, and I couldn't do it anymore. It was like flipping a switch and it made things easier."

She was quiet for a moment. She sucked in a shaky breath and put her hand on the side of my cheek, forcing me to meet her eyes.

"You _can _be happy," she told me. "Okay? You can. I'm happy, aren't I? I've moved on, and I know that sounds harsh, but we can't – we can't just put our lives on hold for him. He isn't coming back. I need you to be happy, too."

"I don't know how to without him," I told her, tears finally making their way down my face. "That's why I've had to do all of this. I was just trying to get through the day. I didn't know what else to do, I couldn't live like that anymore." Cooper's hand found its way into mine and he held onto it tightly. I shook my head, sucking in a shaky breath as I tried to find my voice. When I did, it was high and broken. "I know you think I'm being dramatic but I promise you I'm not."

"Shh, we never said that."

"I know that I'm only nineteen and that I shouldn't even know what love is but I _do_. I know I'll never love anyone like I loved him, and I can't – I can't imagine my life without him in it. You don't know what it's like to have someone like him finally come along after all the – the shit my parents did to me. He loved me in spite of everything, and I – I loved him I spite of his problems, and that's how love _works_. And now he's gone, and it's making everything come back and it's just too much –"

He inhaled sharply. "Is this about them, Blaine?"

I paused, clenching my teeth as I fought to get the words out. "I don't – I don't know. Everything's blurring together and it makes it hard to tell anymore."

"Come here." He wrapped his arm around my back, pulling me to him.

"Don't listen to anything he told you," he murmured fervently into my ear. "His words mean nothing, B. _Nothing_. Okay? He's a pathetic excuse for a father, and he's a bigot, and he's not worth a damn second of your time. He's wrong. Whether you're gay or you're straight, you're always going to be a better man than he ever will be."

"How can you say that?" I choked out.

"Because I know you. Because I'm your brother and I've watched you go through this and you're still here, so you're strong."

"I'm hanging by a fucking thread, Cooper," I said, pushing myself out of his arms and scrubbing furiously at my eyes. "No, no, no. I can't do this, I can't – I don't know how to move past this. I'm stuck, I'm always going to be fucking _stuck_." I was still crying and I fought Rachel when she went to hug me. I started pacing, my hands running over my face.

"Blaine—"

"It's my fucking fault!" I screamed. "It's _my_ fucking fault."

She got up cautiously, walking towards me slowly with her arms raised in front of her.

"Blaine, calm down. This isn't your fault, you know that."

"And how isn't it, Rachel? Please enlighten me," I sneered, wiping my cheeks with my fingers. Why was I being so cruel?

"You couldn't control him leaving anymore than I could, anymore than Burt could—"

"But I was supposed to know!" I burst out, finger roughly touching my chest. "_I_ was supposed to know how bad things were and I _didn't._ I didn't." Those two words rang loudly in my ears, over and over, and I stumbled with the intensity of it. "If I had known, I could've gotten him help and he would still be _here_. I had to have done something, because he didn't come to me – he – he didn't talk to me about it, or – or tell me. Did I not love him enough? I don't know what I did, Rachel. I d-don't know what I did to make him leave."

Rachel closed the gap between us and drew me to her chest, and this time, I didn't fight her.

"You loved him plenty, Blaine. You did nothing wrong. This was obviously something much bigger than any of us knew," she whispered.

"It's my fault," I repeated, shaking my head rapidly back and forth as I began to breathe harshly in through my nose.

"It isn't—"

"It is, it is."

"Blaine listen to me," Cooper cut in, striding over to me. "You're going to be okay. I need you to calm down and focus on my voice, alright?"

"I won't, it hurts too much," I cried, letting out a cough as I choked on the breath I sucked in.

"Blaine, you have to _let him go," _Rachel told me, tightening her hold.

"I can't, it's my fault he left, it's my fault."

"Shh. It's not your fault, Blaine. It's not your fault, I promise."

For several minutes, they both kept their arms around me, murmuring to me until I was finally able to regain my breathing.

"I just – god, there's just so much."

"That's okay, B, that's normal," he told me tenderly. "We're going to help you get through this. It all starts here. This has to be over." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and then untangled us so that we could make our way back to the couch.

I laid with my head on Rachel's lap and my feet in Cooper's as I let my secrets of the last ten months come tumbling out of my mouth: how I saw him in everyone and everything I looked at; how I hated this city because of his much it reminded me of him; how I was terrified of my future because I didn't know where I was going; how the memories of my father and Kurt made my life nearly unbearable; how I used school and my job and running to keep myself busy enough to not think about it all; how I utterly and truly hated myself and the person that I'd become. I was honest, probably a little too much, but did I really have anything to lose at that point?

And at the end, after we were all quiet for a moment, I took a deep breath. "And there were a few times that I… that I cut, a couple months ago."

Rachel's hand went to her mouth and she shook her head, her eyes glossy. Cooper automatically grabbed my fingers, softly turning my arm over to look at it.

"God, Blaine–"

"Don't bother. They're on my thigh."

"Why–"

"Why do you think?" I replied, pulling away from his hold and getting to my feet. "I did it for the same reasons I've always done it."

"Was there anything I could've –"

"No, Rachel," I responded quietly. "If you couldn't have stopped my father from beating me or Kurt from leaving then no, there's nothing you could've done." I let out a sigh, turning to leave.

"Where are you going?" she asked me nervously.

"I just need some time alone. I won't hurt myself."

And with that, I left and made my way through our living room and into my bedroom, my feet walking slowly towards the piano that sat against the wall. I took a seat on the bench and gingerly opened the lid, running my hand lightly across the keys. The sheet music was still there, along with the pencil I'd used to sloppily write the lyrics with. The piece had taken me months to compose, because each time I tried to sit down and work on it, I wasn't able to get out what I wanted to say. My hands reached out, grazing the edges of the paper carefully, heart clenching as I scanned over the page.

I sucked in a shaky breath, let my fingers flow, and began to sing.

_There is a house built out of stone  
Wooden floors, walls, and window sills  
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust  
This is a place that I don't feel alone  
This is a place that I call my home_

My eyes closed tightly, emotion sweeping over me as the words fell out of my mouth. I saw him on the stairs of Dalton Academy with his sad blue-green eyes and I watched us fall in love all over again, in little pictures and snippets of our time together. Taking his hand and not realizing at the time that it would be a catalyst for my first and only love; being his best friend before his lover and being there for him when no one else was; telling him that he was beautiful the night I found his blade, pressing my lips to his for the first time; laying with him, bare skin on bare skin as we found different ways to love each other; Kurt and I on our backs, gazing up at the stars as we counted the constellations; sitting with him on the porch swing as he told me that he would love me forever.

_And I built a home  
For you  
For me_

_Until you disappeared  
From me  
From you_

_And now, it's time to leave, oh, and turn to dust_

_Out in the garden where we planted the seed  
There is a tree as old as me  
By the cracks of his skin I climbed to the top  
I climbed the tree to see the world_

_When a gust of wind came around to blow me down  
Held on as tightly as you held onto me  
Held on as tightly as you held onto me_

I wasn't letting go of him, because I still loved him, because I was pretending, because I couldn't. Rachel and Cooper were telling me that he was gone and I ignored them both, ignored everything in favor of an alternate reality in my mind. I knew he was still there, that his love was inside of me and it was in the stars and it was all I needed. I would always choose him.

_And I built a home  
For you  
For me_

_Until you disappeared  
From you  
From me_

_And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust_

* * *

Most of the stars in the sky are dead, you know. They're so far away and it just takes a while for them to burn out. We, as humans, know this. We can all live for a little bit, knowing the light will eventually disappear, that it can't last forever, but we still pretend that it can and that it will. We continue on with our lives, blissfully okay with denying the truth and the fact that one day, we'll be nothing but something that once was.

And then stars turn dark, and well, you can't lie anymore.

* * *

**A/N: Please let me know what you think! And you know, feel free to share this story with anyone or anywhere. Just a suggestion. ;) **


	9. Chapter 7

**A/N: We're back to Kurt (and also Sebastian) so… do with that what you will. There's not much so say about this chapter, but I hope you like it. This one actually isn't too bad, I don't think, it's just a lot of Kurt's inner thoughts. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!**

**Edit: I ask for constructive criticism, not repetitive comments that continually attack the same aspect of the story. Kurt isn't being punished for abandoning Blaine, nor is he walking into an abusive relationship because he's trying to be happy. He was happy and he was doing better (for a full year before he met Sebastian, he wasn't self-harming), but shit happens and unfortunately he met Sebastian. Kurt was and is depressed, like chemically in his brain and with his self-esteem. That doesn't just go away, so him making the decision to get his life together was an incredible feat. Try to understand what I'm trying to write, and if you don't like it, you don't have to read it. That's perfectly okay. (And I appreciate those of you who actually leave me constructive feedback/nice comments, it means a lot to me)**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to depression and suicide/attempted suicide.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: A Perfect Lie**

_(Kurt, June 2014 – May 2015)_

* * *

"_**The world went from black and white and into color when I laid eyes on you, my love. There'll be no going back."**_** –R.K. Lilley, Grounded**

* * *

**May 23****rd****, 2014 – Kurt's Journal**

_In the last week, I've learned the following things about Sebastian Smythe:_

_1\. He's 24. _

_2\. He's a Leo._

_3\. He's the Events writer for the New York Times._

_4\. He's also from Ohio, and he used to live in Westerville._

_5\. He graduated from NYU._

_6\. His favorite color is green, just like his eyes._

_7\. He's been in a couple of small relationships, but never anything too serious._

_8\. He loves The Sound of Music and Rent._

_9\. He's gorgeous._

_10\. He's actually not an asshole._

* * *

_**June 4**__**th**__**, 2014 – Kurt's Journal**_

_I've only known Sebastian for a few weeks, but I'm starting to like him. It's really weird, to be honest, and I don't exactly know what I'm doing. Since our first impromptu coffee date, he's asked me out a couple of times. Lunch, movies, central park – cliché things like that. He's called me pretty much every day since we met asking how I am and if we can get together, but my answer is always the same: I'm doing alright and I'm busy with school, maybe we can try this weekend? But the semester's over and school's out for the summer so I don't have a choice, really. I can't just sit on my hands and ignore his calls and deflect his suggestions. I have to make a choice._

_How am I supposed to make this choice?_

_I haven't dated in so long, and Blaine was my best friend before he was my boyfriend, so I knew what to expect. But with Sebastian, I'm going in blind. It's different. All I have to go off of is what I learned on our first date (one out of two – I managed to agree to go with him to a diner around the corner last week), the fact that he's very persistent, and how he acted when we met. Which doesn't exactly weight in his favor. He was an asshole, but then again I wasn't the friendliest person on the planet, so that could partially be it. And I don't __think__ he's a jerk, but you never know. He could turn out to be a serial killer. Or a rapist. Or someone who kicks puppies for fun._

_Okay, that's probably going a little far. But I honestly don't know him beyond what he's told me or the things I've put together from the pieces he's told me of his life. Like how he's got some daddy issues, to a certain extent. His father said he didn't care what he did so long as he didn't draw attention to himself or hurt his reputation. (His dad's a lawyer.) He pushed for him to go into law school so that he could work at the family firm, but Sebastian was adamant. He wanted to be a writer. Him and his father got into it one night, so he left and never looked back. Hasn't spoken to him since._

_But… Is he lying to me? It sounds like he's telling the truth because he's told me some extremely detailed stories, all so eccentric to a point where not even the most creative genius-turned-conman could bullshit. Right? He gave me the entire run down on how he had a roommate his freshman year who liked to collect spiders and then read to them at night and told me that he once chugged a redbull, a pint of milk, and a beer and then ran two laps on a dare. I mean, he also said that when he was supposed to be going to his friend's bar mitzvah, he was running late so he accidentally ran into the wrong room – where a wedding was happening. It was right after the officiator told everyone to speak now or to forever hold their peace, I guess, so I can imagine how that must've went. Come on, who would make something like that up? Maybe a super creative-genius-turned-conman._

_I'm being stupid. He's not a conman. _

_I think._

* * *

_**June 5**__**th**__**, 2014 – Kurt's Journal**_

_He called again. I just._

_I'm so nervous. I don't want to get myself into something I can't handle. I have my past to think about and how he'll handle it and that means that I'll have to __tell__ him in the first place. How does someone just casually bring that up? "Hey, so my mom died when I was eight and my dad kinda checked out and it fucked me up to the point where I slit my own wrists every day and tried to kill myself. Also I had a boyfriend who did the same thing and he was probably the love of my life and then I left because I run from things and I fuck everything up."?_

_Who __does__ that?_

_Crazy people who want to lose the only chance they've had at having any semblance of a relationship with another person in the last two years, that's who._

_Why did he have to spill that coffee all over me? My life would be so much simpler without him in it. I'm too complicated, my situation is too complicated, and all that's gonna lead to is a messy breakup and an even messier state of mind._

_I have to take care of me. I have to be careful._

* * *

**June 11****th****, 2014**

_I haven't answered Sebastian's texts in a week. He's called three times and I haven't picked up the phone, either. I can't bring myself to do it._

_Getting involved with him is almost guaranteed to end in disaster. I just don't work in relationships. Boyfriends are not for me and I'm not going to risk everything I've worked for in the last year just to lose it all. I won't go back to cutting and feeling like I don't deserve to live, because I __do__. God, I do and I know that now and it fucking __sucks__ because I like him and I can't do a goddamn thing about it._

_He's the first person that I've really talked to or hung out with outside of school aside from projects and I've forgotten how good human contact could feel. We've only gone out a few times but we talk and text a lot, or we used to, before I started ignoring him. But I just – I can't. I won't._

* * *

**June 24****th****, 2014 **

_I feel terrible._

_I've gotten so many "what did I do's?" and "please talk to me's" and "can I please see you's" and I've ignored them all. I don't know what I can tell him, especially over the __phone__, after the way I've treated him and how important what I need to say is._

_He deserves to know the truth… right? At least then I can explain to him that I can't be with him so he can stop chasing after me and go find someone who will actually pick up the phone when he calls._

_But I like him. I like him a lot. Can I let myself willingly give __this__ up, whatever it is?_

_Sometimes, I wish I could just create a new identity for myself. I want to be someone new, with a new history, and a new name, and even a new body so there's nothing connecting me to my past._

* * *

**June, 2014 **

Four days later, Sebastian and I went on another pseudo-date at my request. (Our third, he made sure to exaggerate that and not that I was keeping count or anything). After pacing for hours, blood racing and palms clammy, I'd called and told him to meet me at the south end of Central Park so we could talk.

And he was barely ten feet in front of me, had barely gotten his mouth open, presumably to ask why the fuck I'd ignored him for nearly three and a half weeks, when I did something so _stupid_, so reckless, and blurted it out.

"I used to cut myself."

It certainly wasn't what I'd meant to say, and definitely not like that. I saw his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, watching as he took a deep breath and worked out in his head what to say to me.

"Okay," he said slowly, nodding. He looked up at me. "Do you still… do you do it now?"

"No." My feet rocked under me, the fight or flight adrenaline kicking in. "But I still think about it every once in a while and I tried to kill myself two years ago."

_ This is it. He's gonna leave, he's going to think I'm insane, why did I just do that, I just fucked up the one chance I had to –_

He was hugging me. He had his arms wrapped around me, the warmth from his body radiating all around me. I froze, heart thumping wildly in my chest.

"Alright," he decided. "You have a past. We all do, Kurt, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Okay? I'm here. I wouldn't have come if I wasn't."

I let out a choked breath, relaxing into him.

"You wanna come sit with me?" he asked, and he held his grip on me as he led us to an empty part of the park. We sat on the ground, our knees bumping just enough to keep the electricity flowing between us.

"His name was Blaine and we met on a staircase," I started eventually, shutting my eyes, and then I told him everything – about meeting him, my cutting, how he saved me, and how I thought I had been happy. I explained that every day was up and down, because I was dependent on Blaine and he was dependant on me, so we just loved too passionately and too hard to be able to maintain what we had while I went through what I did. I said that after my brief intermission from my demons, the four month safe haven I'd been whisked away too, it all hit me. One big giant tidal wave of regret and shame and fear and the realization that I was hurting Blaine. So I left. And here I was, after a year of hell and another year of putting myself back together, for what was hopefully a final time. "That – that's why I haven't been answering you, and I'm sorry. It was an asshole move, but I was scared. I can't go through that again, Sebastian," I told him quietly, not brave enough to look at him. "I just. If you still want… this, or – me, I guess, then we have to take it slow. Really slow. I don't, I'm not sure how it's gonna work. I'm over Blaine, I think, but it's just the idea of being in a relationship again and remembering what happened the last time that's just…" I trailed off, sighing. I finally looked up at him, the barest hint of a smile grazing my lips. "But I'm willing to try, if you are. I really do like you, you know."

His lips curved, too, and he took my hand.

"I hope this relationship can be different for you," he said. "With Blaine, you were hurting. You were going through a dark time in your life so you weren't able to properly love anyone. Now that you're better, I want you to experience love the way it's supposed to be experienced. I can't be him, but I hope that you can let me in enough so that I can help you if things ever get bad again. Let's give it a shot."

So we did.

* * *

When Sebastian and I first started dating, I had been extremely hesitant. I wasn't supposed to get involved with anyone, not after my last relationship had very nearly ended my life. If I could barely take care of myself when I was with Blaine, how could I possibly make room for someone else? Even though I was finally past all of my self-harm issues – I say that lightly; there were some occasions that I wanted to hurt myself but didn't, because I knew that it wasn't something that I could just get rid of, not after so many years of depending on it– I wasn't quite sure what Sebastian would do. Would _he _hurt me, emotionally? Would I be able to love him?

I was over Blaine, but the scars were still fairly recent. I didn't know if they would open up again once I started to fall for someone else, and I didn't know if my heart was even _capable_ of such a thing. When I left, I didn't think I would ever, _ever_ be able to love someone else, but here I was, really liking someone and starting to date him, terrified of ending up broken again. I know I was the one to end things with Blaine by leaving, but I had loved him too much to hurt him. I paid my price already; I didn't want to wind up in the same boat with Sebastian. There were so many things to consider when I agreed to taking it one step at a time with him. Like what had made my relationship with Blaine such a charged, reactive thing – Blaine himself, or my personality, or my sickness? Was it a combination of all three?

There was no way to know, so I could only hope that being with Sebastian would be a risk worth taking, in the end.

* * *

**November 3****rd****, 2014 – Kurt's Journal**

_Blaine,_

_I talked to you last night. Or rather, the stars, where I imagined you to be. Even if I can't exactly see them all that much out here, it's still nice knowing that I have a space where I can just… talk._

_I remember telling you once, while we were sitting on a bench swing, to look up at the stars in the sky and know that I would love you forever. I told you that as long as the North Star was visible, I was thinking of you. That star is always visible, always, in some part of the world at some part of the day, and you knew the meaning behind my words. "I will always be thinking of you, and no matter what happens, I will always love you." I said that and I meant every word, at the time. _

_But sometimes things don't work out the way you think they will, and I made you that promise at a time in my life where I thought I was better. I was planning our future together and in that moment, our love was eternal to me. I was certain that we would be with each other for the rest of our lives, and get married, and have children, and die together, peacefully in our beds and not by our own hands. But depression never really gives you a warning, does it? And I left, because I couldn't hurt you the way I hurt myself._

_I felt like I didn't deserve to miss you, because __I__ was the one who tore us apart, but I did anyways; I simply couldn't help it. I missed you so much and every single second spent apart from you was like trying to breathe without air. Eventually, I had adjusted to life by myself, just like it had been before you. But really, I was only coping. If it was hard going through it all with you at my side, how did I ever think it would be possible for me to do it alone? It's hard for a smoker to quit cold turkey, and the same was true of me about you. Because that's what you were to me: a drug. I had become addicted to your love, and I knew I had to let you go because there was no fixing me._

_Last night, I came out to this same spot where I'm writing right now, and I looked into the sky. The North Star was shining down on me, and I had a feeling that where ever you were, you were listening. So I talked._

_I told you about the first year here, and how miserable I was, working sixty hours a week and not making any friends. I told you that I still wrote, like you taught me to do, but that I still cut, too. I told you about getting accepted into Parsons and how hard it was to juggle the finances of it all and the loans and how even though it wasn't NYADA like I'd planned, I was okay with it. I told you about trying to kill myself and hearing everyone's voices telling me to stop._

_And finally, I told you about meeting Sebastian._

"_Is that okay?" I asked. "For me to like him? I know it's ridiculous for me to be asking you that, since I'm the one who left. Am I even entitled to your permission? I still feel like I'm attached to you, and it's holding me back. I think this could go somewhere amazing, but it's like my feet won't leave the ground. I want to be able to love him, but I need to let you go. I thought I had, when I started dating him, but there's still a part of me that feels guilty for everything I did. And who knows, maybe there always will be, because I screwed up your life, and I can't tell you how sorry I am for that. Sometimes, I wish I had never met you. If you hadn't fallen in love with me, none of this would have happened. And I have no idea where you are right now, but I hope you're happy. I think I'm happy. __He__ makes me happy, and I think I'm falling in love with him. He's done so much for me, things that you couldn't do when I was broken, and my time with you taught me that you can't love away the cracks inside of a person. But now that I'm okay, maybe this time will be different. I hope it is."_

_I wish there was a way to get this to you, but I'll settle for putting it in my journal. I've always felt like you're looking over my shoulder when I write, and maybe you heard me last night, even though I know it's impossible. But I need to move on, so that's what I have to think. Now you know I'm happy, or will be, so you can be happy, too. I'm probably giving myself too much credit, but I just have a feeling in my heart that you haven't been okay. And I want you to be okay. You don't have to wait up for me, because I'm not coming back. It's better this way._

_Goodbye, Blaine._

* * *

**November 25****th****, 2014 – Kurt's Journal**

_Sebastian and I have been dating for almost four months now, which still shocks me. _

_It's been hard, trying not to compare him to Blaine. But I've only ever been with him and my mind automatically says, "Okay, Sebastian does this, but Blaine did this." It's frustrating. I just want to be able to be with Sebastian without all of this hesitation and limitation, but I just can't, no matter how much I want to. I really do think I can trust Sebastian with my heart, but it's terrifying because the fate of my entire life could possibly rest in his hands. If I decided to let him in for good and take off the restraints, he could do anything to me. If he breaks my heart, it takes a snap of his fingers and just like that, I'm gone again. I won't survive going through that kind of loss and heartbreak, not a second time. I'll just be lost to the world and to myself and that'll be the end of me, for good._

_If I fall in love with him, maybe nothing will change. Maybe I'll be permanently stuck in the middle, on the line between being happy and being sad, just floating in the middle. I might feel the same way I did with Blaine and leave so I won't hurt him. _

_My depression could come back at any moment. Is he prepared for that? People say that once you have it, you have it for life. It's like cancer, in a way. There's something in your body that you're born with, something that not everyone else has, and it has the potential to be there forever. Even if you're in remission, there's always the chance of it reappearing. I thought I was happy with Blaine, like maybe the chemo was finally working, but it was a lie. Love can't fix brokenness. He couldn't fix me, no matter how much he tried to love my pain away. It worked for a little bit, that is true: I __was__ happy with him. I was really, really happy, and I loved him more than I'd ever loved anyone. But like I said, the depression had the possibility of coming back, and it did. How would Sebastian handle it if it happened now? Would he stay by my side? Would he leave? Just because he wanted to be my boyfriend didn't mean he would sign up for that, too. _

_There's so much that could go wrong. So, so much. I know I need to put some faith in Sebastian in order to be able to love him, but I'm just scared. Once I can let go of my past, I'll be free._

* * *

Sebastian seemed too good to be true at times, simply because there was so _much _to him. He was charming, witty, and sweet – not to mention absolutely, one hundred percent drop-dead gorgeous. He didn't go running in the other direction when I told him about my past and my scars, and he never pushed me to have sex with him. He was aware of my boundaries at all times, okay to do whatever I was comfortable with even if it was different the next day, and that was something I appreciated. He was new and thrilling and so absolutely exciting and intoxicating that I couldn't help but throw my head back and let him take me wherever he wanted to. I'd grown accustomed to solitude and defensiveness, even after I decided to get better, but he'd replaced it all with happiness and he took down some of the walls that I'd thrown up.

I couldn't deny it anymore: I was falling, whether I wanted to or not. When he told me that he loved me on a cold January day over a candlelight dinner that he'd made, almost seven months into our relationship, I knew that I loved him back. Everything was finally, finally, after so many years, clicking into place.

* * *

**February 10****th****, 2015 – Kurt's Journal**

_Sebastian asked me to move in with him and I said yes. And I might have cried. Just a little. _

_I just – I never, ever expected to have this. And now I have it, and I have him, and I __love__ him._

_I love him, and I'm happy._

* * *

**February, 2015**

"Babe."

I was nestled under the covers, face buried into my pillow and half asleep, when I felt someone crawl into the bed behind me and tap my neck.

"Kuuurt."

I mumbled back incoherently and blinked my eyes open. I looked at the alarm clock and groaned when I saw that it was only seven thirty. "'M sleeping."

Sebastian wriggled under the blanket and slung an arm over my waist, slotting his body with mine. He pulled me closer and his warm breath was tickling my ear. "You're gonna wanna be awake for this one."

"It's seven in the morning. You're a crazy person. Try again in like, two hours."

"See?" I could practically hear his grin. "You can't be _that_ asleep if you're being snarky."

"I'm snarky in my dreams, Sebastian," I said, yawning as I snuggled back against him.

"True." He put his head over my shoulder and rested his cheek against mine. "I'm still not leaving, though."

"Then I'll just tune you out."

"Ouch. I guess _someone_ doesn't want to hear about a possible Vogue internship," he sing-songed, sighing over-dramatically as he made a motion to get up. My eyes went wide, not sure I'd heard him right.

"Wait."

"Ah, there is it."

"Don't be an _ass_," I retorted half-heartedly, shoving my sheets aside to sit up and look at him seriously. "Don't play with me, Sebastian. What are you talking about?"

"An internship. At Vogue."

"I don't understand."

"You, my dear, have been given the opportunity to fetch coffee for snobby rich people and answer calls from designers just _dying _to get their lines featured in one of the most popular fashion magazines in the entire world," he declared proudly, a smile on his face.

"At Vogue."

"At Vogue," he agreed.

I sat in a confused shock, a million questions whirling through my head.

"W-what? How did you-? Why? When do I start? Am I supposed to just walk in with coffee, or do I wait until I ge—"

He silenced my ramblings with a kiss. "Calm."

I took a deep breath, doing as he'd asked. "Okay. I'm calm."

"Are you sure?"

"I think?"

"Good. Now, yes, you're an intern at Vogue. Not _officially_ of course until you meet with the Senior Editor, Isabelle. But I talked to her and showed her some of your designs and she said she'd like to have lunch with you sometime to discuss it. She told me that your spot is practically waiting for you, but policy states that all new employees have to be met with, obviously. It's Vogue, they can't just hire anybody; they wanna know what they're working with. She wants you to tell her how you _'create such wonderfully detailed sketches at such a young age'_ and she wants to ask about your credits and qualifications and all that."

"Wait, Isabelle?" I questioned.

"Yeah, she's looking for an intern to help her out in her department, but I think if you do well, she might just hire you."

"Like get paid? I would get paid to work at Vogue? I would be making money to work for Anna Wintour?"

"If they like what you have to offer, which, of course they will."

"How did you – I mean, this is _huge_—" I was still trying to wrap the thought around my brain, because this internship had the potential to change the path of my entire _career_. Every fashion designer in the world dreamed of being at Vogue and now I was basically being given a spot without having met with a single person. Never in my life did I let myself think that I could work at such a high-profile and influential place – simply because I'd never thought I was good enough. This was literally a one in a million chance for me, but it could do either of two things: it could sky-rocket me into the limelight as one of the youngest fashion designers in the history of Vogue, or it could cause my life to crumble into pieces and leave me absolutely devastated. Obviously, I preferred the former, but no matter what happened once I walked through those doors, I wouldn't go down without a fight. Kurt Hummel was coming to Vogue, and they'd better be ready for it.

"Let's just say I have connections," he said with a sly grin and the tilt of his head.

I flung myself at him, face lighting up as I wrapped my arms around his neck. "Oh my God, Sebastian."

"I know, babe."

"I love you so much. So, so much," I murmured, peppering kisses to the side of his face, and he laughed.

"I love you too, Kurt." He pulled away, hands on my cheeks, and I smiled, giddy with happiness. "You deserve this. You've worked so hard and you're so talented, and I know that you're about to take the world by storm. I've gotten the opportunity to direct amazing shows and I want you to experience the joy of feeling like you're at the top of the world. Designing is your passion, and I can't wait to see all the amazing things that you'll create once you inevitably work there for good. You're walking in an intern, but soon they'll be begging for you to be there permanently."

"Yeah?" I asked, grinning.

"Mm-hm." He nodded, pressing a kiss to my lips.

* * *

**May 19****th****, 2015 – Kurt's Journal**

_I don't think anything can compare to love. It's like a dandelion, or a feather, or a soft ocean wave rolling onto the shore – light, carefree, and fragile. With just a gust of wind, things can get crazy and overwhelming, but never for long. You move with your lover, molding together, and it's an endless cycle of give and take. Love is bliss and warmth and pure, indescribable joy all twined into one emotion; one safety net that will catch me when I fall, one elegant, beautiful vine that holds tight around my heart when all I want to do is run, run, run._

_It's so incredibly and sickeningly mushy and cliché, but it's true: Every day brings wonderful new adventures, and being with Sebastian has taught me so many things. Because of him, I know that second chances are possible. There's life after darkness, hope after everything seems hopeless, and love after I walked away from who I thought was my soulmate. I learned that I __can__ love again, that I can be with another person and still take care of myself at the same time. When we met, I was __coping__. I wasn't completely depressed, but my only goal was to make it through the day without falling back into my old habits. I hid behind walls and sarcastic words and closed myself off to so many people, like I used to do when I was in high school. He walked into my life at a time when I needed him, and that was it. He's changed me for the better, and I'm so grateful that an obnoxious stranger decided to bump into me on a New York City sidewalk and spill coffee all over my new shirt._

* * *

It's been incredibly difficult to write this chapter.

When you read it from beginning to end, our love story seemed… perfect. Doesn't it? He rescued me, taught me how to love again, respected all of the personal boundaries I'd put up. He was good to me – good _for _me – at the time, and he introduced me to a world of new opportunities and chances that I never would have found without him. I was finally happy, the real kind, not just being able to handle my sadness. It all happened so fast, after I'd gave into him and let it happen, like a montage in a movie. But our story was just that: short. And there wasn't an end, not really, not until years later.

Things can change faster than you ever know, so much faster, and our forever wasn't as long as I'd hoped. These are some of the only happy memories I have of our relationship and they're worn thin by my clouded vision and anger and all of the scars I've got. It was indescribably hard to remember and portray them as they happened, rather than as my memory wants to imagine them. It's impossible to separate the good from the bad when everything back then feels like a lie now, but this is all I'll ever have.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think? Pretty please? And share it with all other Klaine lovers?**


	10. Chapter 8

**hink! A/N: This the first chapter of Blaine's recovery and just remember, it has to get worse before it gets better. There's one song in here (Against All Odds), but I'm sure you're all familiar with that one. Title taken from the Jane Austen quote "You pierce my soul. ****I am half agony, half hope." Also I'm introducing two OC'S (One physically, the other's just referenced) and please love them like you love Kurt and Blaine because honestly, they're the best.**

**I appreciate constructive criticism or nice comments (like a lot actually, they make my day), but if you don't like the story or the way Kurt or Blaine are written, feel free to stop reading.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: Half Agony, Half Hope**

_(Blaine, June 2014 - July 2014)_

* * *

"_**I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone."**_** – F. Scott Fitzgerald, ****Babylon Revisited and Other Stories**

* * *

**June, 2014**

A week after my intervention – after I finally admitted that I had to get help, after I let all of the secrets building inside of me out – I called a psychiatrist.

Rachel and Cooper had been helping me research for a few days, trying to help me find someone who specialized in what I needed. This was a life-changing decision; I couldn't just see anyone, I had to make sure that they would be right for me. We were led to a webpage for a private practice where Dr. Henley Lovette worked (to which Cooper had replied "Like Sweeny Todd?" at the same time that Rachel said "Like the shirt?") and it mentioned that she experienced with depression and self harm, which was immediately interesting to me. I didn't know how a person would want to actively spend their lives dealing with people like us, but as I continued to read, I began to understand why.

_ My name is Dr. Henley Lovette. I "specialize" in self harm and depression, but I'm qualified to treat people with all types of mental illnesses. I know you're scared, and it's okay. I can help you help yourself, if you let me. If you're on this page, that means you're probably interested in finding a psychiatrist and hopefully, I'll be seeing you shortly. And even if I don't, you should be proud of yourself for reaching out and seeking help; it's the bravest thing a person can do._

_ Let me tell you a little bit more about myself. I was inspired to become a psychiatrist about twelve years ago by my best friend and partner Charlotte. For almost her entire life, she struggled with depression, and along with that came an array of other problems, most notably (and most commonly) self harm and suicidal thoughts. I would always try to help her, but it was usually in limited success. Once I realized that it wasn't my job to "fix her" – or more accurately, that I couldn't help her because I wasn't qualified – I started researching ways that I __could__ help. I saw a few things that I could do, but none of them had the effect I wanted on her. Once we moved to New York after graduation and she started seeing a psychiatrist and going on medication, the change was miraculous. She went from someone who was withdrawn, hurting, and always looking for a way out to a person who was bright, bubbly, and ready to finally live her life in a little over a year. That's when I decided that I wanted to help those like her, so I switched my major, and ten years later, here I am. Here we are. That can be you. With the right treatment (whether cognitive, medical, or otherwise), you __can__ get better. You __can__ succeed and overcome your illness. I've seen it first-hand, in her and in the many patients that I've treated since working in this practice. It __is__ possible, if you dedicate yourself to it and give it time. _

_ Therapy is nothing to be ashamed about, it's something to be proud of._

"That's the one, Blaine," Cooper urged, putting his hands on my shoulders. "That's her."

"I know," I breathed out. I could feel my heart begin to pick up speed in my chest, both from nervousness and anticipation. This could be the first step in changing my entire life. It could be the beginning of the end of the misery, the heartache, the long-waged battle with cutting, something I'd only ever dreamed but never dared to believe could happen. It was terrifying. This was all I'd ever known; for so long, it was like I had a second skin always waiting for me, or like there were little monsters living inside of my brain. I knew that no matter how happy I was, it was only temporary. And now, I had the opportunity to make that a permanent reality. As much as I didn't want to go to therapy, I knew I had to start coming to terms with everything that was causing my unhappiness, and I couldn't lie – the chance to start over and have a new life? I yearned for it.

I gave her a call, filled out the necessary personal data inventory forms, and set my appointment.

* * *

**July 7****th****, 2014 – Therapy **

"Hi, Blaine, I'm Henley. It's so nice to meet you," she said warmly, a glowing smile lighting up her face. She reached her hand out to shake mine before she shut the door behind me, and then gestured to the room. "You can have a seat on the couch or the chair, whichever you prefer."

I sat hesitantly in the chair, sucking in a breath as I took in my surroundings. The room was painted a light yellow, almost-tan color, which was supposed to make us all calmer, I figured. There was a small desk in the corner, artwork from various cities around the world on the wall, and another chair in front of where I was sitting, where she was.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and they're just to get a feel for your situation, alright? If you don't want to answer them or feel like it's too much at the moment, let me know and we'll move on, okay?" Her voice was soft and concerned, and I knew that she could tell I was nervous. "Everything you say is completely private, and I'm a strict believer in patient confidentiality, so feel free to be as truthful as you can. Once I familiarize myself with what's going on in your life, I'll be able to assess things better. I read over the sheet you filled out, but I want to hear about it from you."

"Okay."

"Can you tell me about why you came in to see me? What was the one moment that made you think, 'I need to get help'?" She pulled out a small notepad and a pen.

_ Ignore that._ _Be honest. Don't lie. This is why you made the appointment, to get help._

"This is just for future reference, don't worry," she assured me after she saw my eyes stare at the paper nervously. "I promise I'm not going to go make copies and hang it on every building in New York."

That got a small laugh out of me and a little of fear in my chest alleviated.

"I don't exactly know where to start," I told her. "It's kind of a long story."

"That's totally normal. We'll get more in-depth with that and the details of it all throughout the coming weeks, but just start at the end of the story and work backwards. It's usually easier that way."

"Okay. Um, a little over two years ago, my boyfriend left," I said quietly, and I wrung my hands in my lap.

"So that's where your trouble stems from?" she asked, and I nodded. "How did you cope with that?"

My jaw clenched, and I looked away. I squeezed my fingers together, nails pushing into my palm. "Yeah, that and… a lot of other things."

"It's only your first appointment, it's okay to be nervous," she reassured me.

"I just don't want to say too much too soon. It's just… it's hard. I don't open up easily. Especially about this."

"With me, you can't ever say too much. This is a safe place where you can say what you want. I know it's not easy for you, but that's why you came here, right? To work through your problems." I nodded my head in agreement. "Once you're comfortable with me, and if you want to continue with me, the novelty will wear off. This is always the worst visit, because I have to gather facts so that I can see what you're dealing with. You're all new to this, and revealing personal things to a stranger is difficult for almost everyone. Typically, most of my patient's find that it's easier to communicate with me once they get everything out on the table."

"Do I have to tell you everything today?"

"Of course not. You don't even have to tell me everything within the first month, or couple of months, if you don't want to. You tell me whatever _you_ want to tell me. If it's going to help you to get it off of your chest, talk about it. But if you aren't ready, don't force yourself. In time, the goal is to be able to get yourself to a place where you can freely communicate to me the things that are bothering you."

"Alright," I replied. "So, do I just… start?"

"Sure, go ahead."

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable that all of the attention was now being directed at me. "Okay, well, his name was Kurt. I met him when I was sixteen, and when I got to talking with him, I realized that we weren't so different. We both needed a friend at the time, and once we'd found each other, our friendship blossomed quickly from there. Within a couple of months, we'd started dating, and then it didn't take long for me to realize that I was in love with him."

"How long were you two together?" she asked me, writing on her notepad.

"A little under two years. It doesn't seem like a lot, but when two people go through what we went through, it just – it bonds you together in a way that's hard to explain. We helped each other and we were latched so tightly onto our relationship. We were both in really bad places, and neither of us were very good at loving ourselves. I had my issues and he had his, but we tried to be there for each other."

"Did you think that you would be able to change him?"

"No, not at first. I just wanted to help him and make him see that he was beautiful, because to me, he was. It hurt me to see him hurt himself, and I did everything I possibly could to fight away his demons. He eventually agreed to go on anti-depressants and write in a journal, and after months and months of him being on medication and trying to get better, things finally felt like they would be okay because he was so much happier and he didn't hurt himself as much. I knew that his depression wouldn't go away completely, but I knew we could manage it. But then, things started to feel… different. I could tell that something was wrong. It was like being on a never-ending rollercoaster – one day he would be okay, smiling and laughing, and then the next he wouldn't get out of bed. It continued to get worse, and then I asked him – I asked him about it, and I had to go over to his house because I was terrified that he'd done something to himself." I stopped, taking a breath. Never, not once, would I be able to talk about that night without feeling sick. Without crying, or remembering all of the blood that was on his arms, or feeling his body collapse into mine. The sound of his sobs filled my ears and I felt a tightness crawl up my throat. I couldn't tell her about this. It wasn't my story to tell, it was Kurt's. I shook my head to clear the thoughts away, continuing with a thick voice. "I woke up one day, and he was just… gone."

"And how did you cope after?" she asked me as she shifted in her seat. "Is says on the sheet that you self-harmed, but is there anything else you did?"

"I…" I bit my lip as I locked my fingers together tightly. She gave me an encouraging nod when I looked at her, and she didn't seem irritated at my inability to speak coherently about Kurt. She seemed to understand, and I appreciated that she didn't rush or force me to talk. I knew that I needed to get these things off of my chest, and the best way to do that was to just spit it all out. I needed to rip the band-aid off so that she was able to see my wound, and I could feel the words pushing against my insides. They were all rushing to my mouth, waiting for me to open it so they could finally be free. "I really didn't know what to do. I just didn't understand why he did what he did, and I spent weeks wandering around, waiting for him to come back. I didn't eat or sleep. I wrote a lot in my journal. I was still in high school at the time, and as the months went on, I started to retain less and I was unable to concentrate on anything. The fact that Kurt had left wasn't sinking in, and I tried to —" I paused again, swallowing hard, fumbling for the words I needed to explain. In a snap decision, I decided to just say what I needed to say, my words hurried and nervous and blending together. "Itriedtokillmyself."

"Are you still experiencing suicidal tendencies?"

"Not really, no. I don't think so. When I got to New York, at first I was surrounded by grief and the memories of him, because we had plans to settle down here. But then… it was just too much. So I got busy. I immersed myself in schoolwork and got a job and started running. It was easier that way."

"When he left, how did you feel?"

"Betrayed." The word, bitter on my lips, slipped out, shocking myself.

"Why did you feel that way?"

"Because he was supposed to love me enough to stay. My parents – everyone else in my life left and he was supposed to stay."

"People leave for all kinds of reasons, but it doesn't necessarily mean that they don't love you. In fact, it might mean that they actually love you _too_ much, or maybe they don't love themselves enough."

"What do you mean?"

"People that are in hard situations like Kurt, they don't think right," she began, using her hands to gesture. "Everything in their head is twisted and backwards. He might have left because he didn't want to cause you any more pain, or because he felt that he wasn't good enough. A lot of the patients that I've dealt with before feel like they don't deserve to have someone like that in their life, or that whoever is dealing with them at the moment will leave one day. To him, your separation may have been inevitable, and he just wanted to leave you before you left him."

"We were _forever_," I replied with gritted teeth and tears stinging behind my eyes. "I never would have done that to him."

"He couldn't have been sure of that, though," she said softly. "Sometimes, people with depression or self-harm issues can't wrap their head around the idea of love. You can always try to get them to understand, but at the end of the day, it's up to that person to want to _feel_ loved. They have to accept your love."

"So what, you're saying that I didn't make him feel loved enough? I didn't try hard enough?"

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that there wasn't anything more you could've done for him. You couldn't force him to believe you or to believe in your relationship, and you can't blame yourself for his leaving."

"But he knew that I loved him," I countered, fingers angrily wiping the tears that fell from my eyes. "He had to have."

"And maybe he did," she responded delicately, leaning closer to me. "I'm just speculating. You know Kurt better than I do, so you have a better idea of how he felt."

"I don't understand." My words were quiet and weak, and as soon as I said them, I let my head fall. I could feel the pressure building in my chest, and I knew it was only a matter of moments before I gave into it. "I don't understand why he left me. I spent every day for two years trying – trying to make him feel important and loved. And he was good enough, he _was_, and he was worth – worth loving. Was it me? Did I – did I do something wrong?" I felt a hand touch mine, clasping over it. My wet eyes met hers and I heaved a breath, blinking slowly.

"Don't ever say that," Henley told me fiercely, sincerely. "I'm going to help you, Blaine. You're going to get through this. Okay? I promise."

* * *

I shoved the doors open, throwing a hand to my face to wipe the tears that steadily dripped from them. After I told her about Kurt, the crying didn't stop. It slowly escalated, and then I couldn't breathe. I panicked, the dread crawling its way through me, telling her I had to leave and got up without asking if it was okay. I felt like I had a dozen voices telling me a million different things at the same time, suffocating and choking me. Fragments of thoughts popped into my head, one after another, colliding with each other before they even had a chance to develop.

_ Kurt._

_ He left._

_ Blood._

_ Need to cut._

_ Kurt._

_ Gone._

_ Why._

_ Kurt._

_ Kurt._

My wrists itched, desperately craving the feeling of the cold, sharp metal that could make my pain go away. I dug my fingers into my palm to keep them away from my arm, feeling my nails sink tightly into my skin, and I knew I wouldn't be able to make it home before I did something I would regret. I took off without bothering to change my shoes or think about what I was doing, letting the rhythmic feel of my feet hitting the pavement try to stifle the hunger and desire to see blood dripping from my veins.

* * *

I ran for hours, going down street after street, past bridges and signs and buildings. I ran after the sun went down and into the darkness, with the stars and the moon high above me. I ran until my feet bled, until my side ached with cramps and I could no longer breathe. The emotional pain transformed into physical hurt, and that was something I could deal with because it would go away and heal. Everything around me became blurry and far away, and the lines on the pavement and the square sidewalk tiles were the only things I saw. I pushed myself to go faster, harder, trying to beat the throbbing ache out of my body. I ran until the urge to cut slowly faded into the background, overtaken by the sound of the city whipping past my ears. And when I finally stopped and went home, panting as my lungs burned with the lack of oxygen, I should have known that sneaking in unnoticed would have been impossible.

"Where the hell have you been?" Rachel yelled the second I opened the door to our apartment, standing from her chair as she came towards me with her arms flung into the air, Cooper close behind.

"At my appointment."

"It ended _five hours ago_, and it's been dark for three of them. I've been worried sick! You didn't answer your phone and I had no way of knowing where you were! You could have been mugged, or lying in a ditch somewhere, or—"

"I'm fine, Rachel," I said tiredly as I try to walk past them. It took all of my effort to put one foot in front of the other and I was so exhausted that it felt like any wrong word would send me into hysterics.

"No you're not." She observed me closer, noticed for the first time my flushed cheeks, wind-blown hair, and labored breathing. Her face instantly softened. She strode over to me, pulling me close to her gingerly. I heard her sigh quietly, felt her rub her hand lightly over my back.

"I'm not okay," I agreed, wrapping my arms around her, and then the tears came.

* * *

**July 10****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"Against All Odds" – Blaine Anderson

_How can I just let you walk away?_  
_Just let you leave without a trace_  
_When I stand here taking every breath with you_  
_You're the only one who really knew me at all_

_How can you just walk away from me?_  
_When all I can do is watch you leave_  
_'Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears_  
_You're the only one who really knew me at all_

_So take a look at me now, now there's just an empty space_  
_And there's nothin' left here to remind me,_  
_Just the memory of your face_

_Oh, take a look at me now, well there's just an empty space_  
_And you coming back to me is against the odds_  
_And that's what I've got to face_

_I wish I could just make you turn around_  
_Turn around and see me cry_  
_There's so much I need to say to you, so many reasons why_  
_You're the only one who really knew me at all_

_Oh, so take a look at me now, well there's just an empty space_  
_And there's nothin' left here to remind me, just the memory of your face_  
_Now take a look at me now, 'cause there's just an empty space_  
_But to wait for you is all I can do and that's what I've got to face_

_Take a good look at me now, 'cause I'll still be standing here_  
_And you coming back to me is against all odds_  
_It's the chance I've gotta take_

_Take a look at me now_

* * *

**July 14****th****, 2014 – Therapy**

The first thing I did at my next session was apologize for running out like I had the previous week. I felt embarrassed and self-conscious and generally just… weak. The reason you went to therapy was to _talk about your problems_, not run out just because you're actually doing what you're supposed to be doing.

"I'm glad that you decided to come back and make a second appointment," she told me, with a sad smile. "I know last time was really hard on you—"

"I'm so sorry," I said earnestly. "It was just, it was really hard, and Kurt —"

"Blaine, it's okay. I understand. It was your first visit, and you're right, it is a lot to take in at one time," she replied, looking at me with kind eyes. "However, that being said, you can't just run out every time something gets tough. As the sessions go on, we'll go more in depth, and it _will_ get harder. The point of therapy is to deal with the problem and learn how to manage it, not to run away from it. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." I locked my fingers together, shifting in my seat.

"If it gets to be too much, just tell me and we'll move on to something else, okay?"

"Okay. I'll just have to… learn to talk about him. Without running away. Or crying."

"Crying is perfectly normal. It's the body's natural instinct in times of pain."

"I hate it."

"Most people do," she replied. "But to me, just so you know, I think it makes people brave." She gave me a tiny smile, almost hidden in her face, as she reached back over her desk to retrieve a paper.

"What's that?" I asked her when she set it on her lap.

"It's… a contract of sorts. Nothing legal, of course, but I find that it helps a lot of my patients."

"A contract for what?"

"It's kind of a 'this is my goal for therapy and this is how I plan on achieving it' type thing," she explained. "You're going to write down things you want to see changed and what you think you can do to get there and then you're going to sign it. I'll give you an envelope and you'll fold it up and put it right in. I won't ever see it."

"I don't really know how I plan on achieving… whatever goal I have. Right now, my goal is to just get through the day," I said quietly.

"That's still a goal, Blaine. Some goals are small – get out of bed, eat breakfast, go to the store – and some are large, like to stop cutting or to learn to manage your depression. I see many types of people and everyone's goal is different. You have to start out somewhere, right? Think of them like stepping stones. Why would you put them miles apart? You have to put them close together, and each time you grow, you can move them further and further, and that's when your goals can get bigger."

"But it's not even a goal," I insisted, because it _wasn't_. It was ignoring the problem, miniscule and tiny and absolutely ridiculous. "Getting through the day? Then it's like I'm not even in therapy." Seriously, whose goal was that?

"Goals change every single day, Blaine, whether you know it or not. Hour by hour, even. When you were ten, your goal was to not fail the science test you had so that you could get that video game. When you were fifteen, it was getting your permit so you could learn how to drive. Now, it's getting through the day." She said it simply, like it was a matter of fact, like it was okay to have such an insignificant goal. "In a week, or a month, it'll be different. You might wake up tomorrow and think, "I can do this", and then change your goal to something else. And then you might decide that it's too hard, at least for right then, and take a few steps back. That's alright, too. Maybe being here will make getting through the day easier, so it isn't such a burden. It isn't for nothing. And it may not seem like things are changing now, but when you look back in six months, everything will be different. I promise."

"What if it isn't?" I challenged quietly. "What if nothing ever works?"

"If you try hard enough, and if you dedicate yourself to getting better, everything will be okay. Don't give up before you've given yourself a chance."

In the back of my mind, I desperately wanted to believe her. I wanted to know that I would turn out fine, that I could be happy and loved and worth it. That I could still have the things I wanted, the life I'd imagined for myself. I still had dreams, somewhere deep inside of me, and I ached for them, to have something _good_ in my life.

But the logical part of me understood that I was done for. I knew myself and I knew my limits and my walls. I knew that what I had to work with wasn't very much and that there was a slim to none chance of me getting over this. And I knew that if I ever miraculously _did_ that I'd be drastically changed in a way that was irreversible. I had opened my heart up to someone for the first time only to have it crushed and broken and left to bleed. I didn't think I would ever be able to trust anyone again – and that was one of the worst parts about Kurt leaving.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of papers ruffling. Henley grabbed a pen from her desk, handing them both to me.

"If you could imagine yourself anywhere in a year, where would it be, mentally? What do you hope to achieve in therapy?" she asked. "What's one thing that you wish, with everything you have, that could change? I know there's something, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Don't think about how impossible it seems or anything like that, okay? Just write."

_I wish I could be brave, strong._

_ I wish I wouldn't be crippled by Kurt's leaving me._

_ I wish I wouldn't have the desire to cut._

_ I wish I wouldn't be such a coward._

_ I wish my parents would love me._

_ I wish I'll finally be able to accept that my parents won't ever love me._

_ I wish I could have Kurt back._

_ I wish I could accept that I can't have Kurt._

I wish, I wish, I wish. There are so many things I wanted, so many things I hoped for my future, things that I could achieve with therapy, if I tried. But I knew that any goals that I had weren't attainable because I was _weak._

So instead, I ignored my thoughts and quickly scrawled out "_I want to be alive_" on the page before folding it with shaky hands and stuffing it into the envelope. I took a deep breath, handing it back to her.

"No, you keep it," she told me. "Put it in a safe place, and in a year, you can open it up and see if you've achieved your goals." I set it back on my lap, playing with the edges.

"What are you thinking about?"

I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. "I'm not even sure if I know the answer to that."

"Then is there anything in particular you'd like to discuss today?"

"I don't really know how to do… this."

"That's okay, because there isn't a specific way of _doing_ therapy," she told me. "You don't do therapy, you _go through_ it. It changes you. Everybody's experiences in it are different, because _we're_ all different."

"No, we're all _crazy_. That's why we come here. We're weak. We need somebody we barely know to tell us things that we're never going to believe and you give us pills to be normal even though we _aren't_."

"Did you think that Kurt was crazy when you tried to get him to go to therapy?" she asked after a moment.

"Of course not," I scoffed.

"Was he weak for going on medication?"

"No, but—"

"Then how come you're crazy?" she countered. "Why do you feel that you are and he isn't?"

"Because it's different!" I shouted, frustrated, hands flying in the air. "It's different, okay? It's _Kurt_."

"How is it different, Blaine?"

"It just is."

"You're not crazy. You're still in the process of dealing with the feelings and emotions of him leaving. You're getting help. There's a difference."

"Is there?" I replied, eyes narrowing. I suddenly felt so angry and I didn't know why. She continued to tell me that I was justified in my feelings and that I wasn't out of my mind, but I _was_ and she was lying. "It's been two years and I'm not over it."

"People work through traumatizing situations at their own pace," she said. "And you've told me that you both latched on to your relationship, correct?"

"Yes."

"You were invested in something that you became dependent on. You both leaned on each other, relied on each other, and when he wasn't there any more, you didn't know what to do." I wiped the tears off of my cheeks sharply, focusing on the wall. "We just have to find a healthy way to help you work through what you're feeling. You said you had issues with self-harm in the past and we can't let you go to that place again, because that definitely won't help anything."

_ Past, present_… I thought to myself. Therapy was triggering. It was very, very triggering, and I knew that I would have to turn to cutting to get through it. It was kind of a relief, in a way, knowing that I had another solution, something that would actually take away the pain. She didn't know what she was talking about, because it _would_ help. It would release all of my pent up anger and desperation and every other goddamn emotion that Kurt had left in my heart.

"Do you want to talk about that? Why you did it?"

"No," I said defensively, voice thick. I crossed my arms over my chest. "Not today."

"Okay, that's fine too."

We were both quiet for a few minutes. I wasn't in the mood to talk and she wasn't going to force me. I unwrapped my arms, fingers subconsciously tracing over the long, prominent scar that had once led me so close to peace. I felt her watching me, observing the way I let my thumb press deeply into my skin with my nail. I ached to feel the slightest hint of blood.

"It wasn't your job to know, Blaine," she told me gently, and I finally met her eyes. I dropped my hand, taking a breath.

"What?"

"With Kurt. Do you blame yourself for what happened?" I swallowed, a tear dripping from the corner of my eye and making its way down my face. My silence was answer enough for her. "It wasn't your fault."

"If it wasn't my job to know," I began, voice cracking as my lip quivered, "then whose was it?"

"His parents or teachers. You were sixteen, Blaine. You were just a kid. You can't put that burden on yourself."

"But I _loved_ him," I argued thickly. "I was supposed to take care of him."

"And you did. You tried your hardest to get him the help he needed. But sometimes, it just doesn't work. You have to tell them how to help themselves and hope that they do. But it's not _your_ fault when they don't."

"It's not his fault, either."

"I never said it was."

We lapsed into silence again before she spoke up.

"We've never really talked about your coping methods. You briefly told me about it, but we haven't gone in depth."

"Yeah, well." I sniffled, wiping my arm across my face to dry my cheeks.

"You mentioned once that you run. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Anxiety is just energy, Blaine. And most people find that the best way to get that energy out is through exercise."

"I don't run because I'm anxious," I told her flatly. "I do it because I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"Because if I don't, I'll cut."

For a few moments, the room was still, the confession echoing off of my lips and filling the space between us.

"Have you ever heard of writing therapy, Blaine?" she asked me.

"Yeah. I do it all the time."

"Does it work for you?"

"Sometimes," I responded, and then shook my head softly, lowering my voice. "I don't know. It hurts when I think about him like that."

"Like what?"

"Gone."

"Then what do you write about?"

"I keep a journal. I mostly write songs about him. A few poems," I shrugged, not knowing what else to say because to me, it was all the same. Whether it was a paragraph, or music, or poetry, it all boiled down to one thing: Kurt. My pages were lined and filled with different versions of Kurt, but they were still _him_. They were still about the boy I loved.

"Okay, good," she told me with a nod. "I want you to keep doing that. Pick any memory or thing you feel and write about it. You need to let these thoughts out, and if you're writing on a constant basis, hopefully it will alleviate some of them. Instead of writing about the time you two shared together, try writing about how it was after he left. Don't pick the easy stuff, because then it's not going to help you move on. You have to write about the hard, painful parts to get to what's really inside. And if you don't feel comfortable showing me what you write, then you can just describe it in your journal. Say why you wrote it, what it makes you feel, the emotion that drove the words. Or pick a quote that inspires you and write that in there. And starting now, I want you to make a list of the reasons you should recover. Each week, I want you to add one more reason to it, alright? When things get hard, that will always be there for you to read over and remember why you're doing this."

"Okay," I murmured, already knowing that this was not going to be something that came easy to me. I liked to remember the good times between us, the special times. The ones where we laid under the stars and recited every quote we could think of from any book we'd read or from any movie we'd ever seen, or when we made love, or when we had pillow fights in his bedroom at one in the morning that would cause us to collapse in a fit of giggles. That's what I remembered us being – happy. Content and lively and so, so in love. I didn't like to remember things as they actually were, hard and stressful and sometimes excruciating. I hated it, because I knew that it shouldn't be like that; I shouldn't look back on us as a regret. And I knew that if I saw us as we truly were, that maybe I would.

"I also want you to go home tonight and write a letter to him. Tell him everything you feel now, everything you felt when he left. Tell him how you've dealt with it, or anything else you want him to know. If he was here, what would you say to him? I'll never see this, unless you want to discuss it with me. This is an exercise for you, to track your progress, but so that you can let everything out, from beginning to end. That way, you'll have a better idea of the things you think you need to work on and which emotions you think are the strongest. Every few months, you'll write to him and see how your feelings change. See if you feel differently, or if things are getting better. Do you think that's something you could do?"

"Yeah," I nodded, taking a deep breath.

"We're gonna try it, okay?" she said.

So I went home and did as she asked.

* * *

**July 14****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal: 1****st**** Letter To Kurt**

_Dear Kurt,_

_ How can I write this goddamn letter when my hand is shaking and my eyes are so blurry that I can't see straight?_

_ Where do I start? I don't know what to say, and yet there are a million things running through my head. Where are you? Are you better? Did you ever love me? Did I not love you enough? Did I love you too much? Why didn't you say goodbye? Why did you leave me? _

_ I'll never know the answer to any of those questions, because you aren't here for me to ask them. This is what keeps me up at night, pacing and crying and having nightmares. I don't understand any of it; it doesn't make sense. What happened to our love, to __us__? Was I not enough for you? Did I do something wrong, to send you running off to God knows where?_

_ I remember when we were sitting on the bench, and you told me that you loved me past all of the stars in the sky, and I believed you because I thought our love was forever and because I thought you meant what you said. But you didn't. You're a fucking liar and you left me here to deal with this alone. You filled my heart with promises and hope and __always__ and then you ripped it all away in one fell swoop. You deleted yourself out of my life, out of Rachel's life, out of your dad's life. Where the hell did you go? Surely if you were here I would have seen you by now. I know the odds of that are nearly impossible, considering how many people there are in this city, but I've run the streets so many times over the last months that I know I'd have found you if you lived here. _

_ I could have helped you. I __tried__ to help you, and you wouldn't let me. What happened? I thought you were getting better, and then all of a sudden, you're lying in front of me with blood-stained wrists and pale skin. Walking in on you like that was one of the worst things I've ever experienced in my life and you'll never understand. Watching the person you love do something so self-destructive and not being able to do anything about it? It makes you feel __helpless__. I cleaned you up and held you in my arms and I thought my love would be able to hold you together but I guess I was wrong. Because you still left._

_ How am I supposed to get over you? How the hell do you expect me to do that? I can't just get over you. You were my __everything__. I invested so much in us, in our love, our future. And now it's all gone and I'm left with no plans and half of a shriveled, broken heart that cries for you at night. You've taken away my freedom and you kept your promise – you never told me goodbye. But you're not here and that's just a goodbye wrapped in a silver lining, because I still live with this one tiny little shred of hope that you'll come back one day._

_ For the first year after you left, I enjoyed nothing. I did nothing, I saw nothing, I loved __nothing__. I couldn't concentrate on anything because all I could think about was you, and where you were, and what I did wrong to make you leave. I almost didn't even go to college because I didn't want a future that wasn't ours, together. If Rachel and Cooper hadn't been there, who knows what would have happened to me. I probably would have ended up dead. I tried, you know. I tried to kill myself, the same way that you did. I sliced my wrists. Romantic, isn't it? I wanted to feel closer to you. I wanted to die. Instead, I cried as I dragged the blade across my wrist because everything in me ached, and then after, because I lived. Sometimes, I wish I'd succeeded, and there are a lot of days where I don't feel like living with the pain and the grief inside of me._

_ The second year was both better and worse. You were everywhere. You were all around me. In the walls, in my written words, in the stars, in my heart. You set up camp in the crevices of my life, the holes of my mind, and I don't think you planned on leaving. I imagined you wherever I needed you to be, and pretending became like a game for me. How long did I go on like this before I broke? The answer is ten months. I broke down in the middle of my apartment next to Rachel and Cooper because I couldn't handle it anymore. I hid behind school and work and running and words and none of it worked, not in reality. In my head, maybe. But all it really did was distract me from the truth that you were gone._

_ And do you want to know the worst part? I'm still hopelessly in love with you, even after everything that you've done to me. All of the pain that I've felt, all of the awful things I had to experience in my life, the hurt I've dealt with – none of it compares to what you left me with. This is so beyond anything I've ever endured. Still, to this day, over two years later, I ache. I ache for you, for what we had, for what we were supposed to be. What we could've been, if you'd only stayed. Amidst the anger and the hatred and the sadness, there's still love. I don't know if it'll ever go away, and I hate you for that. I hate you for taking away my future from me._

_ I don't think you understand what you did._

_ This wasn't how things were supposed to work out. I shouldn't have tried to kill myself and woken up in a hospital where I was told I was lucky to be alive. I shouldn't need to go to therapy because you've destroyed my life. I shouldn't be writing this letter right now. I shouldn't wake up in the morning, not able to breathe because I'm crying too hard. But I did, and I have to, and I am, and I will every single day for the rest of my life until I can learn to live with the truth. _

_ I don't know whether to be grateful for the time we spent together or to wish I'd never met you._

* * *

**A/N: Please leave a (nice or constructive) comment and let me know what you think!**


	11. Chapter 9

**A/N: This is a bit of a heavy chapter, so just be prepared. There's not much to say about this chapter, except the fact that Blaine and Henley's relationship may be a tiny bit unorthodox in certain lights, but just go with it. Leave a comment and let me know what you think! **

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there will be many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to suicide, child abuse, and PTSD.**

* * *

**Chapter 9 – One Step Forward, Two Steps Back **

_(Blaine, August 2014 – September 2014)_

* * *

"_**I can't believe I've said it out loud. The truth doesn't set you free, you know. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed and defenseless and red in the face and horrified and petrified and vulnerable. But free? I don't feel free. I feel like shit." – **_**Melina Marchetta, Saving Francesca**

* * *

**August 11****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"Sad" by Blaine Anderson

_Man, it's been a long day  
Stuck thinking 'bout it  
Driving on the freeway  
Wonderin' if I really  
Tried everything I could  
Not knowing if I should  
Try a little a harder_

_Oh, but I'm scared to death  
That there may not be  
Another one like this  
And I confess  
That I'm only holding on  
By a thin, thin thread_

_I'm kickin' the curb  
'cause you never heard  
the words that you needed so bad  
and I'm kickin' the dirt, cause I never gave you  
the things that you needed to have  
I'm so sad, sad_

_Man, it's been a long night  
Just sittin' here  
Trying not to look back  
Still looking at the  
Road we never drove on  
Wonderin' if the one  
I chose was the right one_

_Oh, but I'm scared to death  
That there may not be  
Another one like this  
And I confess  
That I'm only holding on  
By a thin, thin thread_

_I'm kickin' the curb  
'cause you never heard  
the words that you needed so bad  
and I'm kickin' the dirt 'cause I never gave you  
the things that you needed to have  
I'm so sad, sad  
So sad, so sad_

* * *

**_August 12th, 2014 - Blaine's Journal_**

_I feel so damn guilty. I wake up every day and I am weighed down with nothing but __guilt__ because I wasn't able to do enough to save him. God knows I tried, but it was never enough. And by the time I realized what was happening, he just started falling apart faster than I could catch him, piece by piece, and then he was gone._

_And it doesn't end there. I committed more crimes than failing to protect Kurt. _

_I feel guilty that I tore apart my own family. I feel guilty that I made Rachel stay with me for a year, keeping her from New York. I feel guilty that I became Cooper's burden, that he had to pay for all of my hospital bills, that I allowed myself to spiral in front of him three times. I feel guilty that I lied to them for almost a year. I feel guilty that I have to rely on them when I should be able to help myself. I feel guilty about every goddamn thing I've ever done and it's drowning me._

_I'm terrified that I'm going to wake up one day and just… not want to fight anymore. I think about it at night: what it would feel like to finally end it all. It would be easy enough to get away for a few minutes, with a knife or a gun or a rope. Or perhaps with nothing at all, just enough speed to run up the stairs and onto the roof and out into the air over the side of the building before they caught me. Laying crumpled on the sidewalk with hundreds of people watching was never how I wanted it to be, but the option is there. If it ever gets bad enough._

_I want my death to be private, I've decided, not on display. I don't want to be a spectacle; I feel like I've been in a case for my entire life, tapping on it as passerby's stare and whisper behind their hands, wondering what on earth happened to the boy behind the glass. I lived under my father's scrutiny for fourteen years, my every move being watched for perfection. Then I lived with Cooper, hovering over me to make sure I wouldn't hurt myself, and Rachel, silently watching me out of the corners of her eyes, waiting for the right time to say something._

_I've always been somewhat of an enigma, a problem someone doesn't quite know how to solve, the broken boy that can somehow never be fixed._

_But in spite of all that, the fact of the matter is this: Nobody wants to die. __I__ don't want to die. It's not in our nature, no matter how many times we try to kill ourselves, to __want__ to give up. I'm just – I'm forced into thinking about these things, death and suicide and the way the blade feels slicing against my wrist, because it hurts so much and I know that's how I can stop it. My brain tells me that with a single action, just a simple cut, all of the noise in my head can go quiet. Because that's what body's do: they attack the pain. And I'm fighting a war that I'm too weak to fight, so I know that eventually, the dark part inside of me is going to win._

_I just want to wake up one day and not be me, not living this life or feeling the way I feel or having the scars I have. I just want a fresh start. I want everything erased, my father and Kurt and how sick I am, and I want to start over._

* * *

"Sad" was the song I sang at Coffee Express, a small local café near my apartment. I was walking home after a session with Henley, trying to clear my head, when I saw the building. There was a sign on the window that said "Needed: Musician/Performer", and in a spur of the moment decision, I decided to go in and play something.

Henley told me that singing the painful things and being able to acknowledge that they happened was the first step in being able to open up about the worst memories and feelings I had. It was still hard to talk about Kurt with other people that weren't Rachel, but when I sang, the words just… came out. It wasn't always easy, but music had a way of healing me while it broke me down, if that makes any sense. I was able to say what I couldn't say with words.

I sat down at the piano on the small stage, introduced myself, and then let my instincts take over from there. I'd never sung about Kurt in front of an audience before, in front of people that didn't know me or my situation, so it was incredibly new and scary, but once I'd started singing, everyone else melted away. I pictured Kurt sitting on a barstool in front of me, barely out of reach but just enough so that my fingers couldn't touch his. It was as if my words were the only way to bring him back to me, to make him understand that I was sorry for not doing something. It was my only chance to tell him that I loved him more than I'd ever loved anyone, and I made it count.

I finished my song, and then I sang another, and another – some that I'd written and some that I'd heard on the radio. No one came up and stopped me or told me that I had to let other people go. Everyone sat and listened, giving me their undivided attention as every pair of eyes began to turn to me, but I wasn't focusing on them. I saw _Kurt_, and I sang to him and _for_ him, and that was all I was thinking about as I let my fingers harshly run over the keys on the piano. I knew I probably sounded wrecked, my voice cracking in places that it shouldn't, thick and desperate. I knew that people were probably thinking to themselves that I needed help, that I needed to see someone, and I knew that all of the pain that I'd been trying to hide from the world ever since I was fourteen came tumbling out into the limelight. I knew that I shouldn't have done it, because those songs were private and mine and _his, _but I had to_. _AndI knew that my phantom lover was waiting for me back at my apartment, in the form of a shiny little blade, if I needed it.

When I finally stopped, the final key sounding quietly throughout the café, I heard something I wasn't expecting: thunderous applause. No one was annoyed, or angry, or looking at me like I was crazy. There were no scoffs of disgust, or eye-rolling because I was dramatic. People weren't repulsed at my use of the pronoun "him" over "her". Instead, they were… cheering. Clapping endlessly, whistling, smiling sadly at me. Some had tears in their eyes and some were already crying. I was in shock, sitting at the bench with my hands still resting on the piano.

"Thank you so much," I called out, wiping my cheeks. "Thank you." It was all I could say, and they seemed to understand.

A petite woman with short auburn hair and bright green eyes came up to me, shaking my hand and introducing herself as the owner. She asked if I was interested in a permanent job there, and after a few words stumbled out of me, I swallowed hard and nodded my head. Even though I already had a job, I always had wanted to be a performer, after all. Maybe this was that opportunity.

"I think we found our guy!" she yelled excitedly, pulling me up next to her. Everyone was on their feet, roaring in their praise, and I couldn't help but let a watery smile slip from between my lips.

"What's your name?" she asked me, and I told her it was Blaine.

"Well, Blaine," she began, laughing, "I'm Charlotte, and I think I speak for all of us when I say that we're truly lucky to have you."

* * *

It turns out that it was Charlotte Cartwright, Henley's girlfriend.

It really was a small world.

* * *

As the weeks wore on, my trust in Henley grew immensely. I started to talk more openly, on my own, rather than her having to prod me into discussing my feelings. I would go in knowing what I wanted to say, so it became easier to lead. Sometimes, I would talk for the entire session, about anything and everything – my job, Kurt, my love for music. I could lay on the couch or sit in the chair and just… let it all out, as if it were a monologue that I'd had memorized for months. It could take the entire hour, and on some occasions, she would even extend my visit so she wouldn't interrupt me. Sometimes, it was I that sat and listened as she told me her life – of Charlotte, her passions, and her family. She was hesitant to do that at first, but I told her that I wanted to hear about it and where she came from. I needed to be reminded that even though things can seem nearly impossible to get through because you don't see a light at the end of the tunnel, there's _always_ a silver lining. There's always a reason to keep moving along, to dream and to live. It's possible to come out of the other side and live long years filled with happiness, and she was proof of that. And I thought that if I was able to connect with her stories, if I was able to absorb everything she said to me, then maybe I could end up like her, too. Changed, but stronger.

However, it wasn't always so simple and there were some days that I just wouldn't feel up to digging into my past or my feelings. I would get frustrated and angry at myself for being stupid enough to trust someone with my heart, and I'd shut down and become unresponsive. Those were always the sessions that I left without uttering a single, useful thing to progress my treatment. I could get nasty and spiteful, muttering rude and unnecessary comments under my breath, and I almost walked out on her a number of times. When I wasn't doing things like that, I was either pacing angrily or ignoring what she was saying by wrapping myself up in my own thoughts. Amazingly, she never took offense to it and continued to try and help me. "_Sometimes people just need to be angry_," she said, and left it at that.

On other occasions, I would slip back into my old skin of nervousness and uncertainty, not quite sure what to divulge and what to keep locked away inside the caverns of my mind. I wasn't exactly irritated or uncooperative, I was just… sad. Hesitant and quiet, like I'd been the first time I met her. I missed Kurt the most on those days, and I didn't have the energy to hate him or to talk about him at all, really. We would have to resort to our old game of her asking me yes or no questions so that I could be prodded into talking about _something_, and even then my responses were mostly with only a few truths layered in short bursts of words.

But I was learning, slowly. I was grasping the concept of therapy, of having someone there specifically to listen to _me_ and to help. And though I still hated going, I was growing accustomed to talking about Kurt and finding ways to cope with everything.

The aftermath, however, was a completely different story. The nights of my sessions were absolutely unbearable. I would go over what we'd talked about, allowing it to flutter around my brain, knocking against each other until I couldn't even think. I regretted telling her whatever I had and I constantly re-thought my entire decision to even _go_ to therapy because it all seemed like a mistake.

There were many side effects to going – raw feet from my forceful attempts to run out my pent up energy, a burned throat with the taste of acid in my mouth caused by my anxiety and stress – but without a doubt, the worse consequence was the heightened urge to cut.

When I'd started therapy, Rachel had seen to it that any and all blades or sharp objects in the house were gone and out of my reach. She checked everywhere, making sure that there was nothing that I'd be able to get to, and while she hadn't locked up the kitchen knives yet, she slipped in the fact that she would if she had to. So I had to get creative and hide things in places she'd never think to look. I went to the store and bought average, everyday hygiene supplies, like toothpaste or soap, simply because the flaps of the boxes could be glued down to make them look unopened. I would put them in there and she always went right past them anytime she checked for anything that I could use to harm myself.

Dealing with therapy and figuring out all of the other emotional problems I had – in addition to school and the everyday stresses of life – made me realize that I would need them sooner or later. And on one night, I finally did.

It wasn't like I was trying to do any real damage – it didn't even leave a deep scar, just a small thin line that healed after a couple of days. I did it on my thigh so no one would be able to see it, because I just wanted to remember what it felt like, to feel… light. Free. If cutting made everything easier and released all of the pain I was experiencing, then why wouldn't I do it? That was my excuse, my justification, and it eventually became routine to come home after therapy and make a small cut on the inside of my leg. They never bled for too long or needed stitches – they were just little marks to help cope with everything. I know the whole idea is ludicrous and backwards, but I figured that if I wasn't hurting myself too bad, then it was okay. I knew that if I actually tried to slice my skin with something that would need stitches, then there was no going back. I would become a cutter, in all senses of the word, and that's when I would _need_ to feel the tug of the blade, the burn of the air mixing with the blood. And I knew that if I ever went to that place again, like I had when I was younger, then there was no saving me, not again. So I held back and stuck to little marks, proud of myself for being able to relieve some of my pain in a way that wasn't entirely self-damaging.

But my parents eventually cropped up in one of my sessions. And then they turned into big cuts.

* * *

**September 8****th****, 2014 – Therapy**

"So, Blaine," Henley began, "we haven't really talked about your family much."

I immediately went stiff, fidgeting in my chair. "Oh?" I said, fingers playing with themselves in my lap.

"Yeah, is that something you'd want to discuss? We've talked a lot about Kurt, but we haven't really talked about you _minus _Kurt."

"Do we have to? I mean, I'm here because of him, not my family." I grew very nervous, because I most definitely did _not_ want to talk about them and I knew that would only make things worse. In fact, I'd gone to great lengths to make sure that my parents_ never_ came up in conversation, to cover up the things I was hiding. And besides, I'd already known that my parents had played a role in my ending up there. Maybe not directly, but they were a part of the reason I'd become so dependent on Kurt, and thus a part of the reason why the breakdown that followed his absence was so severe.

"That's true, but childhood and familial atmosphere plays a lot into how people grow and handle things as an adult," she explained, as if she were reading my mind.

"It was fine."

"Blaine," she continued softly. "I'm not going to force you to talk about it, but I do think it would be a good idea to get it off of your chest." She was looking at me gently, like I might fall apart and crumble at the sound of her words, and I hated it.

"I'm fine," I repeated defensively. "They didn't do _anything_."

"I never said they did," she told me, but I knew that she was able to tell I was lying.

"How did your parents take it when you came out?" she asked, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes were staring intently at me, knowingly.

"Fine."

"I don't think you're telling me the truth."

"I don't care," I fired back, irritated that she wouldn't drop the subject. "You don't get to make assumptions about me. You don't even _know_ me."

"As your therapist, I'm supposed to push you to talk about the harder things once we're comfortable with each other, which we are now," she replied. "So, Blaine, let me ask again: How did your parents take it when you came out?"

I gritted my teeth and looked away, tears stinging in my eyes. I set my jaw, throat tightening as I began hearing voices ring in my head.

_ "You're going to hell."_

_ "We taught you better than to be a faggot."_

_ "You're worthless."_

_ "I wish your mother'd had an abortion." _

_ He's slamming his foot into my stomach, continually and repeatedly, and after I feel my stitches rip apart, I throw up all over myself from my spot on the floor. "Be a man," he yells at me. "Stand up and fight!" His foot aims for my leg now, and the pain is excruciating. There's a pounding in my head, a fire under my veins, and the only thing I can feel is the blood dripping from everywhere – my arms, my legs, my lips. It's coppery on my tongue, and it makes me wonder what he punctured and if I'm going to die. He reaches down, grabs my collar, and my neck lolls to the side. He shakes me violently, shouting, "You're a faggot! I don't want you in my house." He shoves me back to the floor, kicking my ribs, and I hear a crack. I scream, and then everything goes black._

"Hey, Blaine." I jerk when I hear her voice, bringing me back to the present. Henley was kneeling on the floor in front of me. "Hey, shh, it's okay."

I was shaking, tears running down my cheeks as I sucked air in harshly through my mouth.

"Oh my God," I choked out, bringing a shaking hand to my lips.

"Calm down," she said. "You're in my office, Blaine."

I looked around wildly, breathing heavily, and then I squeezed my eyes shut.

"What—" I began, and then shook my head, taking a breath.

"You just had an episode," she told me gently. "You were remembering something, right?" I nodded.

"It – It was so _real_," I gasped, sniffling and wiping my eyes. "It was like I was _there._"

"I know." She patted my hands and then handed me a small cup of water. "Here, drink this."

I did as she asked, then breathed slowly through my nose to try and calm myself down. She pulled her chair so that it was in front of mine, and then sat down. I set the cup aside when I drank what I could stomach.

"Blaine, we have to talk about what just happened."

My head fell into my hands at her words, anxiety wrapping around my heart. "I can't."

"You have to. I'm afraid that what just happened might be a symptom for something that's developing or something that's already developed. I need to understand what caused it so I can diagnose it, because this isn't something that's just gonna go away on its own."

"I can't talk about it," I said, my voice thick. "I can't."

"How about I ask you yes or no questions?" she asked, and after a moment, I agreed.

My answers – shaky and barely audible – made me feel like I would be sick.

"Were you thinking about the time you came out?"

"Yes."

"To your parents?"

"…Yes."

"Did they hurt you?"

Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, continuing to steadily drip, and I exhaled, "Yes."

"Your father?"

I nodded, bringing my hands to cover my mouth and nose. "Oh God."

"It's okay, Blaine."

"But it isn't," I choked out, shaking my head slowly. "It isn't and it's never going to be. Why doesn't he love me? What did I ever do to him to make him treat me like – like that?"

"Nothing, Blaine. You didn't do a single thing wrong. But your father?" she said, the disgust in her voice obvious. I wondered, briefly, why she cared so much, why she was so invested. "He's the one that did _everything_ wrong. He should have loved you, and been there for you, and told you that you were still his _son, _no matter what. He had no right to say the things he said and to do the things he did. He deserves to rot in jail for abusing you the way he did, Blaine, I hope you understand that. You did nothing wrong, absolutely nothing." She said her words with such force and conviction, staring right into my eyes as she gripped my hand, but I didn't _feel_ any of it.

"I did," I told her as tears slipped down my cheeks. "It's my fault that he doesn't love me. If I wasn't so – so _out_, or so dependent on other people, or so selfish, or maybe if I was _better, _then he would – would want to love me."

"Listen to me very carefully," she began. "You can't make yourself smaller so that other people can be bigger. You shouldn't have to dim your light so that your father would want to love you. He's your father; he should love you regardless. There's nothing you could have done to make that man love you, Blaine. And I'm so sorry that you got parents that didn't take the time to understand you. It's not fair, I know, but that's just the way it is. You're so kind and you didn't deserve the things that they did to you. You aren't selfish and you don't need to be _better. _You need to be you, and you can't let your father continue to treat you this way. Because that's what he's doing every time you think something bad about yourself. It all stems from him, so when you say that you're too flamboyant, or dependant, or worthless, that's _him _talking."

"No," I said, voice thick. "It's me. And I believe all of those things, because they're true. He just made me realize it sooner."

She was quiet for a moment, lost in thought as she pondered something that I couldn't see. Then she pulled her hands away, sat in her chair, back straight as she attempted to find a semblance of professionalism. She took in a small breath.

"I had a brother, you know," she began softly. "His name was Will."

I looked at her, puzzled, and sniffled. _Had?_

"He came out to me when he was fourteen. By that time, I'd already figured out that I was gay myself, so it was a bit of a shock when my brother turned out that way as well. But it wasn't a bad shock. It was a scared shock, because I realized that I would have to help him hide, too." She paused, and then her eyes met mine and she started again. "When I was about seven or eight, I remember going on a family trip to Disney. We were waiting in line, and just a little bit ahead of us there were these two men. One was leaning on the other's chest and they were holding hands. They weren't being flamboyant, or obnoxious, or even that obvious, really. They were just… quietly in love. And I pointed it out to my mom, because it seemed normal to me. It was just _love._ Even at that age, I thought that that's what I would have. I didn't think about kissing or even marriage, because I was only seven, but I just knew that rock star Barbie and swimmer Barbie looked like they would make a good couple. So when I told my mom, I said 'I've never seen that before', because I hadn't. And it surprised me to know that this kind of a relationship existed outside of my head. I was never taught anything about it, not even told that it was wrong. It just… wasn't brought up. But right after I pointed and smiled, she looked at them with the most disgusted, vile look that my seven year old self had ever seen. And she said, 'They are going to rot in hell for what they're doing. They're faggots, Henley, do you understand that? Don't touch them, don't go near them.' I was scared and confused, because I'd never, ever heard my mother use words that were so awful before. I'd never even heard the word 'faggot'. So I kept quiet, but I didn't understand what the two boys holding hands had done wrong."

"I'm… confused." My voice was small, shaken. Her story made chills run up and down my spine, made my skin crawl with the hatred and words of bigots. "I don't understand why you're telling me this."

"I'm telling you this because I know you don't think I understand what it's like to have parents that don't love you or that I don't know what it's like to lose someone, but I do. That's why I went into this field, to help people that went through what I did."

And because I trusted her, I sat and listened, waiting for her to explain.

"When Will was fourteen, I was sixteen. I'd always had an inkling that he was gay, so I was terrified that my parents would find out without one of us saying anything. He came to me, crying, because he was so scared that they'd kick him out, or worse. At that point, we knew full well what they thought about gay people. Being raised in a Baptist church in Illinois, I don't think there was a single person that didn't tell us it was a sin or an abomination. So naturally, I told him that I was gay too, and that I would help him. I told him he couldn't tell our parents because I knew they wouldn't take it well and I couldn't run the risk of them hurting him. I hated having to do that, telling him that he couldn't be himself, because I knew what it was like. But his safety had to come first, and it did, for a little while. Until they found out."

"How?" I whispered.

"Kissing another boy," she said, sadness evident in her voice. "By that time, he was now fifteen and I was seventeen. They found him by his bedroom window with who they thought was his friend Oliver. Turns out, they were more than friends. Of course I wasn't shocked, but my parents, who were coming to get him for _bible study_?" She shook her head. "It was _awful_. When I heard the yelling, I ran out of my room to see my brother being taken down the hall. I got Oliver out of the house and then when I made it into the living room, I saw my dad on top of Will, hitting him. He called him a faggot, said he'd burn in hell, and continued screaming these things until I charged at him and slapped at him to get him away from Will. He kept shouting and shouting at us, until my mother – quiet but clear in her disgust – simply told me to deal with him and then left the room with my father. I drove him to the hospital, got him fixed up, and didn't leave him alone with my parents for the next several months. He slept in my room, I took him to school, we ate together in a different part of the house. We simply tried to carry on with our lives, away from them. They continued to call him things and tried to change him, even when I was with him. Once, my father even tried to hit him with me standing right next to him."

"This continued on for a year, when he finally couldn't take it anymore. He was only sixteen, and he committed suicide because of our parents."

I let my head fall into my hands, heart plummeting into my stomach. Tears fell openly from my eyes, and I cried for her because she had to go through that, for her brother for thinking that he had no other way out, and for myself, because I had tried the same thing. The only difference was, I had failed.

"I'm so – I'm so sorry," I choked out. It wasn't enough and I knew that, but it was all I had.

"He's a big part of the reason why I wanted to do what I do. I specialized in depression and self harm specifically to help people like Will and Charlotte. People like you. And there's _always_ a way out, Blaine. Always."

"But Kurt—"

"I'm talking about your own parents, Blaine. Not about Kurt. Right now, I need you to understand something." She scooted forward in her chair, gripping my hands. She looked directly into my eyes. "You are not at fault for what your father did. You can't let him do this to you. You can't let him kill you the way my father killed my brother. You told me that you tried to commit suicide after your parents found out, but it didn't work, and that's a sign that you're supposed to be here. Living and breathing and getting help. Okay? _You did nothing wrong_. You deserve to have a happy life."

I stayed silent, tears continuing to slip down my cheeks at a terrifying rate. I still couldn't believe her. Even after her telling me about her brother, I just… couldn't. I couldn't force myself to believe that my father didn't love me because of his own bigotry and I knew deep down that _I_ was still the problem.

"He's the reason for all of this, Blaine. Don't you see? Because of the way he treated you, you had to become dependent on people like your brother and Rachel and Kurt because you clung to any love that you were able to find. You couldn't trust people because of him. You latched onto Kurt so hard because of him, because you needed somebody like that. And you wanted so desperately to help Kurt because you understood his situation, because you had to help him like people never helped you, and you took it so hard when he left because of your father. It's a chain reaction. He may not have had a direct hand in any of these things, but ultimately, he's the reason."

_ He's the reason._

_ He's the reason._

_ He's the reason._

These words echoed in my head, loud and distinct, over and over.

_ Yes, maybe he is the reason_, I thought. _But I'm the problem._

I was the problem. Me.

"And I think," she started gently, taking a breath, "that he's the reason for your PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Wait. What?

I picked my head up, looking at her with cold, bloodshot eyes.

"I don't have PTSD."

"You show a lot of the signs. Persistent re-experiencing is one of the most common indicators. Vivid flashbacks, memories, and dreams, which you said that you've had."

"Yeah, _had._ As in I don't anymore."

"Because you push it out of your mind. Another sign is having intense negative reactions when exposed to anything that serves as a reminder to the event, like you just did with that episode you had. Emotional numbing, another sign. You avoid talking about what happened and you think that your future will somehow be restricted or limited because of what he did. Problems with anger or concentration, issues with sleep or emotional outbursts. You had little to no support after what he did, and you've had these symptoms for a lot longer than a month," she concluded. "I think you have it, Blaine." Her voice was tender but firm, and I stayed quiet, working my jaw as I tried to figure out how to respond.

"I don't have PTSD," I eventually said. "I'm fine. Just because I don't wanna talk about something doesn't mean I have a disease."

"It's not a disease, Blaine. This is just something that came along with what happened with your father. That was a very traumatic time in your life, and the stress – combined with your internal struggle and problems with self harm – led to a suicide attempt. Because it was never properly resolved, you never really got to work through the emotions of it. You're still experiencing the aftermath. However, the PTSD could have come from that, or it could be from Kurt leaving. Like I said, had your father not done what he did, you might not have taken what happened with Kurt so hard. In my opinion, it probably started with your father and then got re-agitated when Kurt left."

"So basically what you're telling me is that I only took Kurt leaving the way I did because of my father?" I spit out, infuriated. In my lap, my fingers clenched and I gritted my teeth together.

"Not exactly—"

"I took Kurt leaving so hard because I fucking _loved_ and _needed _him, not because of my father. My father may have tainted everything else, but he didn't taint our relationship."

"I never said he did," Henley told me calmly. "I'm just giving you my take on it. But since I am a psychiatrist, I can accurately diagnose you. And I think you have PTSD, Blaine. Whether you choose to believe it or not."

"This is real fucking great, you know," I fumed, running my fingers angrily through my hair. "Another thing to add to my list of problems."

"I can help you, Blaine. This is treatable. We'll work through it in therapy, and while we do that, there's medication you can take to help manage it—"

"I'm not taking any fucking pills," I interrupted. "I won't."

"I can't force you," she said, sighing. "But I think it would be a good idea."

I went home after that session angrier than I'd ever been. I headed straight for my bathroom and ripped out a blade and spent hours slicing my skin.

I can still point out all of the scars it left.

* * *

**September 19****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

_I was reading a book that Henley recommended for me as a part of my therapy. It's called "I Wrote This For You", and I found this one quote._

"_I love no one but you, I have discovered, but you are far away and I am here alone. Then this is my life and maybe, however unlikely, I'll find my way back there. Or maybe, one day, I'll settle for second best. And on that same day, hell will freeze over, the sun will burn out, and the stars will fall from the sky."_

_When I saw it, I thought of Kurt and wondered if the same was true for him about me._

* * *

_**September 28****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**_

"All I Want" by Blaine Anderson

_All I want is nothing more_  
_To hear you knocking at my door_  
_Cause if I could see your face once more_  
_I could die a happy man, I'm sure_

_When you said your last goodbye_  
_I died a little bit inside_  
_I lay in tears in bed all night_  
_Alone, without you by my side_

_But if you loved me,_  
_Why'd you leave me?_  
_Take my body,_  
_Take my body_  
_All I want is,_  
_And all I need is,_  
_To find somebody,_  
_I'll find somebody_  
_Like you (oh)_  
_(Like you)_

_See, you brought out the best of me_  
_A part of me I've never seen_  
_You took my soul and wiped it clean_  
_Our love was made for movie screens_

_But if you loved me,_  
_Why'd you leave me?_  
_Take my body,_  
_Take my body_  
_All I want is,_  
_And all I need is,_  
_To find somebody,_  
_I'll find somebody_

_But if you loved me,_  
_Why'd you leave me?_  
_Take my body,_  
_Take my body,_  
_All I want is,_  
_And all I need is,_  
_To find somebody,_  
_I'll find somebody_  
_Like you (oh)_

* * *

**A/N: Leave a comment and let me know what you think? Share this with anyone you know that loves Klaine!**


	12. Chapter 10

**A/N: Please read the warnings and read at your own caution and level of comfort – it's the beginning of a darker part in Kurt's life and it is going to get very heavy. Remember, I'm portraying a certain character's story and not everyone whose experienced things like this have experienced it in the same way. Everyone's stories are different. Also remember that if you don't like this type of story, please don't read it or leave nasty comments. I'm trying to shed light on a very sensitive and often shied-away-from issue, it has nothing to do with how I think about either Blaine or Kurt. **

**Leave a comment and let me know what you think.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to domestic violence, possessive behavior, and non-con.**

**Note: I do NOT, under any circumstance or happening, agree with the way Sebastian treats Kurt or with the way Kurt rationalizes it all in his head. These are not my views, they are simply occurrences they may often happen in a relationship of this nature.**

* * *

**Chapter 10: All Roses Have Their Thorns**

_(Kurt, January 2016 – August 2016)_

* * *

"_**I loved you to the point of ruin. I loved you until my lungs were filled with ash." – **_**Tina Tran, Until I Started Choking On Our Memories**

* * *

Early in the winter of 2016, a mere year and a half after meeting him, my relationship with Sebastian took an abrupt and unexpected turn.

As the months went on and spring eventually gave way to summer, I began to realize that things were different. Gone was the sweet, loving boy I'd fallen in love with – the one who sat and held me on the nights I'd been up late dealing with school, who promised to be there through everything if it ever got bad again, who danced with me in our tiny kitchen at 6am while we made breakfast – and in his place was nothing more than a controlling, jealous boyfriend who took away any ability I had to see the truth.

It didn't take long for me to become tangled in the web of lies he'd built around us and every day only piled more weight onto our already-crumbling relationship. Working late led to arguments, and arguments always led to fights, which turned into screaming matches with his hands clenched at his sides. Sometimes those clenched fists left blossoming blue and purple bruises on my body, and those were the times when he would fall to his knees, begging and pleading with me to forgive him. He loved me, he would say. He loved me, I knew that. He didn't mean to and he was _sorry_. And once I inevitably accepted his apology, he was reaching for the button on my pants and I wasn't stopping him because I knew I didn't have a choice. I hadn't yet realized that it was too late for sorry's.

I had so many things taken from me, but not being able to say "no" or refuse his hands, in whatever capacity, was one of the worst.

Domestic violence was the kind of thing someone saw in a movie, what they brushed off when their friends warned them to be careful. It was a possibility, sure, but never actually _probable._ It wasn't something that you ever _planned_ for. It wasn't what I imagined my life to become, but slowly, words became harsher, hands became rougher, and I began to realize that there was no way out for me. Because for reasons I've never been able to understand, I still loved him. I did, I still tried to see the good in him even when there was so much bad, so much anger. And even though he was always the one who was apologizing to me, it was just like a backhanded compliment. It was never an apology, not really, because wrapped up in his words was the hint that I was to blame. _I_ was the one at fault, _I_ had to work harder at us, _I_ was too sensitive. It didn't take long before I stopped fighting him and started believing what he said, and whether that had been his intention all along or just a by-product of his control over me, I'll never know.

I always wondered, years later, how I had allowed myself to fall so far into someone like Sebastian. It was as if I had plunged into the light without thinking about what I'd do when I got to the darkness; aware but still blind, still naïve. My answer? He wasn't evil when I met him. I don't think he was born cruel, nor do I think that he born with the capacity to carry out all of the unspeakable, horrific things he did. I believe that circumstance, combined with his desire to keep me close and the scars he wore from his relationship with his father, created the monster he became. I loved him, and that was the beginning and the end of my reasoning. I kept telling myself that things would change, that _he_ would change, because I knew the kind of person he was and what he'd turned into wasn't it. And maybe it wasn't the right choice, choosing to love him, but it was the choice I made and I can't change that.

I've read over and over again that I could have recognized it sooner or seen the signs, though I know that's not true. There was nothing _to_ see – until the moment there was. Right up to that first shocking night, he was only loving and adoring, bearing no clues of the unknown potential he had to become abusive. I never saw it coming. I can fault myself for being in too deep, but I'm not to blame for the blindfold he'd tied around my eyes.

And the hardest thing I've had to accept about it all? That's just life. Clouds trail silently behind silver linings while thorns grow upon the vines of roses. There's never been a reason as to why the world has to see such malicious wickedness and perhaps there never will be. Because the universe doesn't have to explain itself, and neither did he. Life rarely provides justifications.

* * *

**January, 2016**

"Hey, Sebastian, it's me," I said through the phone, walking out of my office building. I called to let him know my plans for the night but had gotten his answering machine, so I decided to leave a message. "I'm gonna head over to Trish's. She's throwing a little party for Michael's birthday, and since you said you'd be working late tonight anyways, I figured I'd go. Hopefully you'll get this before you get home so you don't think I got hit by a cab or that I was kidnapped or something ridiculous like that. I love you!"

By the time I'd arrived, the party was in full swing and I could hear the loud bass of the music before I even stepped into the apartment. There were dozens of bodies packed in a tight space, but we were New Yorkers and more than accustomed to the closeness and lack of personal space. I dug a drink out of the cooler, popped the cap off, and went to find my friends. I still had a couple of hours before I had to get back to Sebastian, so I just wanted to let loose and enjoy myself.

The fun, however, was short-lived. I was talking to Michael about something we needed for one of our design classes when a loud, angry voice broke us out of our conversation.

_ "Where the fuck is he?"_

"Isn't that Sebastian?" Michael said, looking at me with a confused look on his face. He motioned his cup in the direction of the boy that was currently shoving past the throng of people.

"Um, yeah?" I replied, pausing with a baffled expression. Sebastian stopped in front of me for a moment, and before I even had a chance to ask him why he was so upset, my arm was being yanked on.

"You're leaving," he ordered through clenched teeth. He tried to pull me away, but Michael put his hand on Sebastian's shoulder.

"Hey, calm down."

"Don't touch me," he hissed, and Michael backed off and raised his hands in the air.

"I don't want any trouble, Sebastian. Just let go of him."

"What's going on?" I asked, trying to tear my arm free angrily; he was making a scene in front of my friends and the people that I worked with and I hadn't the slightest idea why. "Stop acting like – Sebastian, let go of me!"

"No. We're leaving." He began to roughly push me towards the door, but I refused to allow him to come in here and treat me like I was his child.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I yelled, wrenching out of his grasp and stumbling backwards.

At that point, everybody was staring at us, at a loss of what to do. Someone turned the music off and their voices hushed to hear what was going on.

"What's wrong with me is the fact that my _boyfriend_ is at a party doing God-knows-what with whoever the fuck he wants to."

"Excuse me?" I snapped furiously. "I left you a _message_, if you even looked at your goddamn phone. It's a _birthday_ party and I'm hanging out with my _friends. _Last time I checked, you don't own me and I can do whatever the hell I want."

"You're drunk and you're dressed like a slut!"

I heard the sound before I registered the stinging in my hand and the livid expression on Sebastian's now-reddening face. _I slapped him._

"Fuck you," I spat, tears springing to my eyes.

"I think you should leave," Trish said to him, coming up and tugging me away.

"No, Kurt, you're coming with me." He was seething as he reached for my arm again, but he didn't even make it a step before Michael put a hand on his chest, pushing him away.

"Don't you dare touch me," I hissed. "Get the fuck out of here."

He threw Michael's hands off of him, staring at me in rage.

"If you don't leave now, I'm calling the cops," Trish threatened, and Sebastian looked between the two of us, infuriated, before he turned around and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" People rushed around me, rubbing my arm and my back.

"I don't understand what that was," I replied, hands shaking as I ran them through my hair. I scrubbed away the angry tears that started falling. "I don't know what his problem is. Nothing like that has ever - he's never done that before."

For the next hour, people continued to console me and offer me comfort, but I was left staring helplessly at the door, trying to wrap my head around what had just happened.

* * *

The second I entered our apartment the next day, he was there – right in front of me, with red eyes and wild, tangled hair. I could tell he'd been up all night and that he'd probably been crying because I could see the stains left on his cheeks. Two pools of sea-green caught mine for a moment, pleading with me to understand, but I stepped past him and closed the door. I took a deep breath, shoving down the wave of guilt rolling over me. I hadn't done anything wrong, I knew that. I couldn't find it in me to figure out why he would have acted the way he did, and I wasn't ready to move on from it like it was nothing. Never, under any circumstances, had he been that angry and possessive and _jealous_. Because I knew that's what it was, jealousy.

I took in another breath, threw my bag down onto the table, and then turned to face him.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" I shouted, all of my plans for calmness and composure going out the window.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," he said, his voice earnest and fervent.

"Sorry doesn't fucking cut it, Sebastian." I started walking to our bedroom, harshly untying my scarf from around my neck. When he put his hand on the back of my arm to try and stop me, I spun around and gave him a nasty look. "Don't touch me."

"I'm sorry, baby. I know I was an ass, I don't know what –"

"Yeah, you were an ass, alright," I agreed, laughing angrily. "And you sure as hell better tell me why the hell you decided to come in and think that you had a right to pull me away from a _birthday_ party and then insinuate that I was fucking _sleeping around_."

"I don't know, I'm sorry, I just –" he fumbled, hands flying around in the air as he searched for words. "I got jealous, and I –"

"Jealous? Of _what_?" I scoffed, undoing the buttons on my vest and flinging it in the hamper. I paused for a second when he didn't answer. "I'm sorry, am I dressed like a slut?" I asked sarcastically, rolling my eyes as I stalked out of the room.

"I didn't mean that," he said hurriedly, striding to catch up with me. "I didn't, Kurt, I swear."

"Sure."

"I'm so, so sorry, baby. I promise that I'll never do it again." He appeared in front of me and dropped to his knees.

"Get off the floor, Sebastian, you look ridiculous." I glanced away, cocking my hip to the side and pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers. _You did nothing wrong_, I repeated to myself.

"I'm so sorry," he told me, clutching my hands. "Please forgive me."

I huffed and didn't know what to do when he looked up at me with wet cheeks.

"Sebastian," I sighed, frustrated. I brought a fist to my forehead, pulled out of his hold, and then started to pace.

"I love you, I'm sorry," he repeated, sniffling. "I got jealous and it was stupid of me. You're not a slut and I know you would never cheat on me, ever. I'm so sorry, you have every right to be pissed right now and I know I was a jackass, I _know_. It won't happen again, I swear. But I _need_ you to forgive me, Kurt, _please_."

"I just don't understand," I told him, running a hand over my face. "I don't get it. You had no reason to be jealous. I was planning on leaving soon and I wasn't even drunk when you got there. Michael has a boyfriend. Every part of me was clothed and I didn't have any intentions of letting anyone do _anything_ to me. There was absolutely no reason for you to have done that. None of it was justifiable."

"I know that now. I just got so scared that someone would take advantage of you or that you would leave me for one of them, or—"

"So what you're saying is that you don't trust me, right? We've been together for a year and a half, do you honestly think I would do something like that?"

"I don't know," he said quietly, standing and grabbing my hands as he avoided my gaze. "Look at yourself, Kurt. You could do better."

At that, my eyes softened and my anger faded. _So that's what it was_, I thought. _Insecurity, not jealousy. _Oh, how I knew about that.

"Sebastian," I began gently, "you know that I love you. Only you. Okay? I don't want anyone else, so don't knock yourself down because you think I'd even _go _to someone else. And even if they tried something, they'd just end up with a broken nose." I tried to lighten the mood, but when he finally met my eyes, he was almost in tears.

"I don't want to lose you. I don't know why I freaked out last night and I wish I could take it back. I see all of these guys around you and I'm afraid that you're going to realize that you would rather have one of them."

"You won't lose me." I pulled him close to me, arms going around his waist. "I promise. I'm yours. I don't want you to be scared that I'm gonna run off with somebody else, alright?"

"Okay," he murmured, burying his face in my neck. "I hate hurting you."

"I know you do," I murmured, hugging him close, and just like that, I was able to rationalize why he did what he did.

We had sex that night and he whispered apologies into my skin and loved me until I forgot my own name.

I had done nothing wrong, and yet…

* * *

In hindsight, I should have realized that he was manipulating me. He was using his own emotions to play on mine, and he was able to make it seem like he was insecure. He knew that was the one thing that would stop me in my tracks, because _that's_ what I understood. Not being jealous, ripping me away from my friends and causing a scene, but insecurity. It was a good argument for what he'd done. I believed that he was sorry, and that he wouldn't do it again, and that he meant what he was saying. He wanted it to look like he was scared of losing me, and at the time, I mistook his tears and begging for regret, but his actions were only fueled by selfishness. He wanted to keep me close, and for reasons I'll never understand, that was his way of tightening his grasp on me. And it worked, it worked so well, otherwise things wouldn't have happened the way they did.

That night was the catalyst for a vicious cycle, and I wish I'd had the sense to get out before things escalated to the point where they were out of my control.

* * *

After that happened, we were never the same.

I started to notice that he became more controlling, even though he promised that he wouldn't. He expected me to call him on my way to work and on my way home, every day. If I was at school, he wanted to know who I was with and when I planned on getting back to the apartment. He'd told me that one of his exes had been stalked and that he didn't want that happening to me, so calling was just a "precaution". Better to be safe than sorry, he said, and even though he could sometimes get a little over-protective, it felt like he had my best interest at heart. At the time.

We started to fight more, over small things to start, and then those problems eventually grew and grew until they hit a boiling point. At first they were little arguments, over something stupid, like me forgetting to call. He would be upset for a few minutes and then, if he would yell, he always convinced me that he was just worried about my safety. Following that, an new issue cropped up – the fact that he thought I was around other guys too often and not spending enough time with him. He told me that he felt unimportant, like I didn't want to be with him anymore, and that would always immediately end the discussion because I would feel terrible for making him feel that way. I would go to hug him and assure him that that wasn't the case, the guilt simmering in my stomach as he cried into my shoulders.

We would have sex and wake up the next day and do it all over again.

He continuously got jealous when there wasn't a reason for it, and it was frustrating to have the same fight over and over. Sometimes, we would just end up screaming at each other and I would try so hard to defend myself, but it was completely pointless. He stood his ground and told me that he didn't want me to end up in the hospital like his ex had, and that he was only acting so crazy because he loved me so much and was afraid of losing me. I would always forgive him and agree to call next time or promise to spend more time with him. I wanted to ease his fears and stop the argument, and even if I knew I was right, I still gave in to what he wanted.

Another problem for him was the fact that my work took up so much time. After I'd interned at Vogue for a year, they'd offered me a permanent, higher-paying position. I was at the bottom of the chain and the last rung in the totem pole of my group, but I still had responsibilities. I had deadlines and I was held accountable for pulling my own weight, just like everyone else was. I had to brainstorm ideas and sketch drawings and put together presentations, so there were some nights that I wouldn't get home until midnight. Each time I walked through the door on a late night, he was always angry, even though I had called or texted to let him know. Those fights were always the worst, and I came to dread coming home because I knew there would be an argument.

There were two things that consistently happened after each time we fought: apologies and sex. He would spend the entire night, (or, if I had walked out, the next morning) following me around, saying in a choked voice that he felt awful and that he was out of line and that it would never, ever happen again. His words were etched into my brain and written into my heart, always the same mantra of, "_I love you, I'm sorry, please forgive me." _And I always did, because he was Sebastian, _my_ Sebastian, and regardless of anything he'd done, I still loved him. His apologies would lead us to the bedroom, and I thought it was normal, but looking back, I realize it was just another way for him to keep his hold on me. Sex didn't fix problems, but it was his way of making me believe his words.

As I fell deeper and deeper in love with him, things started to get worse. It should have occurred to me that his abuse and our sex life were directly correlated, but it never did. I should have known that there was something wrong if I was becoming more attached to and emotionally invested in someone who treated me the way he did, but I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. As the months wore on, his anger escalated and he began to put the guilt on me. He would tell me that I didn't have a right to be upset, because he'd put so much into _us _and I _just couldn't see how much he loved me_. Eventually, it got to the point where I felt responsible for everything that went wrong in our relationship, when in actuality, I was usually never at fault.

I was simply the marionette and he was the manipulator, pulling all of my strings.

* * *

**August, 2016**

"You okay?" Sebastian appeared around the corner with a sympathetic smile and two cups of something I could only assume was tea.

"No," I sighed, putting my head in my hands. I brought my palms to my eyes before running them through my hair and settling my fingers on my temples, letting out a long, harsh breath.

He padded over and sat down on the couch, setting the drinks on the small wooden table that was currently covered in dozens and dozens of papers that contained a magnitude of sketches and designs. Colored pencils and pens were scattered across the floor and crumpled paper balls were strewn across the room.

"This is uh, quite the mess you've got here, babe."

"The whole team is depending on me," I moaned, flopping back against the couch with a huff. "I don't know why I agreed to this. Isabelle needs these by Tuesday, which only gives me another two days to get everything ready for my presentation. And I am _severely_ lacking in motivation. I mean, look at these." I sat up, holding one in front of him with my hand. "In what universe did I ever think it was okay to have light blue with _fuchsia_? It's 2016, not 1984."

"Maybe you just need a break," he suggested, his hand resting on my upper thigh. I drug my hands over my face, sighing.

"You know I don't have time for that, Sebastian."

"Come on, you never have time. Let me distract you."

"You can distract me _after_ I finish these."

"You know you want to," he told me, beginning to kiss up my neck.

"Stop," I said half-heartedly, trying to move away. I knew that it wasn't practical to start anything yet because I had so much work to do, but I also didn't feel particularly keen on upsetting him.

"I don't want to." He continued to kiss me and his hands began to wander, and at that, I pushed on his chest.

"I can't, Sebastian," I mumbled, doing my best to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Of course you can't," he scoffed, rolling his eyes and moving away. "You obviously don't have time for me."

"Don't twist this around. You know that's not what it is."

"Actually, I don't. You treat that job like it's more important than me half of the time and I'm sick of it. I got that internship for you to get your foot in the door, not so you could spend every waking hour of the day there."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so busy," I told him, trying to backtrack. I hated when he yelled at me and I could already tell that this argument wasn't going to end well.

"You should be," he retorted, standing. "I'm so fucking tired of it all. Me or Vogue, Kurt? That's what I feel like doing at this point. I'm so over you not being home and you putting that job above me."

"Don't make me choose," I pleaded, voice thick, looking at him. Everything had spiraled out of control so quickly and I wasn't prepared for it. "You know how much it means to me."

"Why shouldn't I? I'm obviously second in comparison—"

"No you're not!" I cried, getting up from the couch.

"Yes I am!" Sebastian yelled. "Our relationship is being put on the backburner, Kurt! Your work _always_ comes first! Always! Every time I try to initiate something, it's _not tonight, babe, I'm busy _or _just_ _a few more minutes, I've got to call Isabelle and run this by her_, and God knows those few minutes always turn into hours. Do you know how many times I've eaten dinner out here, by myself, waiting for you? How many times I've had _to jerk myself off_ because I try to be intimate with you and you never want to have sex! I shouldn't have to do that when I have a perfectly capable boyfriend of over two years in the next room!" He ran a hand through his hair and shoved my hand off of his arm when I reached for it. "Don't," he said coldly. "Don't even touch me."

"I'm sorry!"

"You're not, though! If you were, you would stop doing it! If you were, then you would start paying some God damn attention to me! If you were, you would have sex with me!"

"I can't help that I have work!" I said fiercely, shocked at my sudden outburst. I usually tried not to prolong and draw out our fights, but this time, something in my body refused to let him walk all over me. I knew that I hadn't done anything wrong, knew in the back of my brain that I wasn't obligated to sleep with him, but I was fighting a losing battle within me. The more he continued to talk, the more that realization began to fade away; the more he yelled, the more I futilely attempted to defend myself.

"It's taking over your life! We haven't had sex in over a week because you refuse to put down that fucking sketch book!"

"It's not all about sex!" I yelled back. "Stop bringing that up! You're always working on an article for the newspaper and do I say a word when you're caught up in _your_ work? No, I don't!"

"Writing an article isn't taking over my entire life! This is about _you _never being here! It's about _you_ not putting in enough effort to _us_. It's about _you _hanging out with every other guy in this fucking city but me!" he shouted, flinging his arms out.

"What does _that_ have to do with _anything_?"

"I don't know, Kurt," he sneered. "What _does_ that have to do with it?"

"What are you implying?" I snapped, narrowing my eyes, almost daring him to say what I knew he was thinking.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Go on," I challenged, crossing my arms. "Say it. Don't be a coward and dance around it."

"Fine," he replied coldly. "You want to know what I think? I think you're fucking other men."

"Well that's sure news to me!" I exclaimed, laughing bitterly as I threw my hands in the air.

"It's Michael, isn't it? He's the one you're fucking."

"I'm not having sex with anyone but _you_!"

"We don't ever _have_ sex!"

"Oh, don't _even_ go there," I told him, infuriated. "We have plenty. You're just mad because you haven't gotten laid in the last week, but last time I checked, it's not _required_ for me to fuck you every goddamn day of the month!"

"It is when you've been in a committed relationship for over two years!"

"Fine. You want to know why I haven't wanted to have sex? In addition to be _actually_ being busy?" I snarled, stepping closer to him. "Because it fucking hurts, Sebastian."

"What, can't man up and take it?" he scoffed. "Sex doesn't hurt."

"It's fucking easy for you to say! You aren't the one who can't walk the next morning!" I said, anger and shame boiling inside me. "You take it too far sometimes."

"Oh, so now it's my fault?"

"I never said that, I said that you're brain doesn't think about anything past getting your dick in my ass—"

"Fuck you," he spat, striding to the door. He ripped his jacket off of the rack, shoving it over his shoulders. "I can't believe you just said that to me."

"What, would you rather me lie?" I answered, flinging my arms out.

"I'd rather you not open your goddamn mouth." He threw the door open and then he was gone, the slam echoing throughout the apartment.

* * *

After he'd left and I'd calmed down, I knew that I'd screwed up. I didn't understand why I had gotten so upset or why I'd been so vocal about my feelings, because I usually stayed quiet to not make things worse. I didn't think it was right of me to say those things to him and almost immediately, I felt incredibly guilty. Because it _was _my fault, wasn't it? I was never home, we were never intimate, and I technically _was _putting my job over him, even if I hadn't intended to. I needed to work on things and be more open to having sex with him, which should have been a part of any healthy relationship. I wasn't satisfying him physically or emotionally and I had to fix that. I reasoned with myself that he wasn't meaning to hurt me and that I had to find ways to have sex that wouldn't be as painful.

As the minutes ticked by with no word from Sebastian, I became scared that he wouldn't come back after what I said. I needed him to come home so I could get him to understand that I _knew _he was right. I had to tell him that I would be with him more and that we could have sex every night if that's what would make him happy. I went and sat down in my room, my throat tight, and told myself that if he _did _come back, I would do anything I had to do to keep him in my life. Because I loved him, even after all of that.

Finally, after about two hours, I heard a soft knock on the bedroom door.

"Kurt?"

"Sebastian?" I called, scrambling to the edge of the bed.

He came in and swiftly crossed the room, tugging me into his arms. I sighed in relief, tears flooding down my face as I gripped his shirt.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I repeated, over and over. "I didn't mean any of it."

"Shh, _I__'m_ sorry. I'm sorry." Sebastian pulled me tighter against his chest, bringing my head to rest under his chin.

"I didn't know where you were, and I was scared because it's my fault –"

"Shh, I'm here," Sebastian cooed, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "It's okay that it was your fault. You'll do better next time, right?" He pulled away, brushing a piece of hair out of my face. I nodded, taking in breaths through my mouth to calm myself down.

"You love me, don't you?" he asked with the tilt of his head, searching my eyes.

"Of course," I said, sniffling. "I'm sorry for everything I said earlier, I just—"

"I want you to show me," he murmured, hands sliding up my thighs. "Prove how much you love me."

_ This will make things better_, I thought, swallowing down my apprehension. _Maybe he won't be so mad at me anymore. _

So that's why, when he unzipped my pants, I let him. When he went further and wanted more, I gave him everything he asked for because I felt that I owed it to him. I didn't object when he didn't use any protection or lubricant, and even though it hurt, I didn't make a sound. He continually whispered into my ear, telling me how sorry he was and how much he loved me, and I did my best to believe him.

In the back of my mind, I knew that the endless cycle would spin around and around until the day we died. We fought, we had sex, we apologized, and then we did it all over again. Sometimes, like then, it would hurt, but I eventually learned to never bring it up again. I loved him and I needed him to love me back. I knew that I would do anything for him, to be able to keep him, because he was everything to me. If that meant biting my tongue, or having sex, or calling him on my way home, then I would do it. And I realized that he merely loved me in his own way, passionately, and he couldn't help himself. Just because I wasn't enjoying it didn't mean that he couldn't.

* * *

They often say that love is blind. And eventually, I began to understand why.


	13. Chapter 11

**A/N: We're back to Blaine's side of things. I'm afraid this is the darkest of his chapters, but remember, it has to get worse before it can get better. There's three songs in this chapter: Underneath (Adam Lambert), Underground (Adam Lambert), and Reminds Me Of You (Sam Smith). I highly highly highly recommend listening to them as usual, but especially Underneath and Underground – they were practically written for Blaine and his struggle. The poems in the chapter are mine.**

**Leave a comment and let me know what you think!**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to suicide, alcohol abuse, child abuse, depression, PTSD, and promiscuity.**

* * *

**Chapter 11: I Carried Hell With Me**

_(Blaine, October 2014 – February 2015)_

* * *

"_**I feel like I'm losing my damn mind, like your face has been carved into my heart, and I don't remember when, and I don't understand why, but the scar is there, and I can't get it to heal. It won't go. I can't make it fade." – **_**Alexandra Bracken****, ****Never Fade**

* * *

**October 4****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

_I go back and forth between hating you and loving you and blaming you and missing you and it's exhausting._

* * *

**October 6****th****, 2014 **

_Because of what happened with your father, you became dependant on the love and stability Kurt provided for you, even if he himself was unstable._

_ Kurt might have done more harm than good because the environment he created was unintentionally toxic for you._

_ I think you have PTSD, Blaine. Whether you choose to believe it or not._

I let out a half-strangled sob and brought my shaking fingers to my mouth, biting down as Henley's voice echoed in my head. I moved to press my hands firmly against my ears, shutting my eyes tightly as I sucked air in harshly though my mouth. I needed to block her words out and forget anything she'd ever said to me because it was just _too much_ and I couldn't process it all. In that moment, I hated her like I hated my father and my mother and Kurt for leaving me. I hated her because she felt as though she had the right to put a label on me just because she had a degree that gave her permission to dig through my head. I hated her because she was telling me that my love for Kurt was intense and amplified only because of my father, that my love somehow meant _less_. I hated her because she made me want to hurt myself again, deeper, after months of fighting with myself and only scratching the surface of my skin. And I hated her because there was a part of me, buried deep inside in the corners of my brain, that knew she was right.

Another sob crawled from my throat, and another, and then they were digging their nails into my esophagus like little demons, fighting each other on their way out. They tumbled around my mouth, filling every inch of space, and I clenched my teeth together before I screamed, causing them to spill from between my lips.

_Someone please help me, I can't do this._

My forearms burned, and I knew that if I'd had a knife with me like I wished, I would have ripped it across the vein that sat over my wrist, right where my hand met my arm. My fingers scraped over the base of my palm until there was no skin left, and through the blurriness in my vision, I could see red bubbling. I let out a gasp, like I'd just been shocked, starting to feel a relief at the way my blood mixed with the air.

But then I felt a strong pair of arms wrap around me, pulling my hands apart and holding them against my chest. I cried out as the pain immediately came flooding back, struggling against the person who I knew was Rachel. My screams echoed throughout the building, deafening in my ears, and I couldn't breathe because I was _suffocating_. I was being buried under Henley's words and Kurt's promises and pictures and memories and truths and lies and I couldn't take it anymore, make it _stopstopstop._

"No, no, let me go, please let me go," I sobbed, folding in on myself. I weakly pounded on her, all of the fight draining from my body. I shook my head back and forth, squeezing my eyes shut while I coughed from the air that was rapidly being forced into my lungs.

"Shh, you're okay." She was at my ear, quiet but firm. "You're okay."

"I'm not okay," I choke out. "It's not just him anymore, it's _me,_ it's all me."

"Shh," she murmured, holding on to me tighter.

"I'm – _I'm_ the bad, and I – I can't do anything, and she's right, she's fucking _right_—"

She continued to whisper, rocking me slowly back and forth while she wrapped herself around my chest tightly. She rested her head against mine, trying to soothe me with nonsensical words, but the tears refused to stop.

"I need, I need something, it hurts," I managed to say through the thickness of my voice. "I'm being – stretched, and I need – sharp, please, Rachel, please, _please_."

"Blaine," she said, and her voice cracked, "you know I can't do that."

I imagined, in my head, ripping a blade from my shoulder all the way down to my wrist. I felt it slicing through my skin, felt the warmth of the blood flowing from the wound, the life draining from my body. And I wanted it, I wanted it more than anything I'd ever wanted in my entire life, because I wanted to _die_. I couldn't _do it_ anymore and the only way to make all of the noise go away was to cut the wires that allowed me to hear it all.

And then memories began to plant themselves in my brain all at once, playing on an endless loop over and over and over, so I let the black wave of consciousness consume me.

_ Kids, crowding my body, kicking, smacking, punching anything they can find. The cobble on the pavement is digging into my back and the shouting around me is thunderous. A foot slams into my side and I hear something crack just before I feel the heavy metal of the crowbar collide with my stomach. I cry out, feel something wet trickle down the side of my face—_

_ My father's hand stings on my skin, and for a moment, everything is silent except for our breathing, and then I see his hand come toward me again. I'm pushed to the ground with the force of the slap, and then it's nothing but kicks and punches and shouts of "faggot", and I feel blood—_

_ I'm lying on the kitchen floor, empty alcohol bottles and broken plates surrounding me. I feel numb and devastated and _angry_, so I pick up the sharpest piece I can find and I don't know when I made the decision to rip it down my arm, but I did, and it's deep and it hurts—_

_ The steady beep of heart monitors fills my ears. Everything aches and there's a constant throbbing in my arm, and then I hear something else, and it sounds like Rachel's sobs. I blink my eyes open and the light is so blinding that I close them immediately, but I'm told that I'm lucky to be alive and that I had so much alcohol in my system, that I would have bled out if it hadn't been for Cooper coming home to find me. He's standing off in the corner, eyes red-rimmed and hair disheveled, and _I _did that, _I _made him look like that—_

_ I'm sitting on a rooftop, and I'm searching the stars for an answer, and I remember Kurt telling me that his love _was _the stars, everywhere and for always, but he lied to me, he lied. Why did he leave, _why why why_? I want to slide off this roof and crumple to the sidewalk—_

_ My feet hit the ground, thump, thump, thump, and I sprint down streets, dodging people and weaving through cars, and each time he enters my mind, I push myself forward, faster, harder, and I'm trying to get away from it all and just _forget_—_

_ I'm in a chair, listening to Henley speak, and we've just finished talking about my family and how it relates to how I acted when Kurt left. Her voice is filling my ears and tears gather in my eyes and I'm angry, I'm so angry, and I clench my jaw shut. I know she's right, and I can't stand it because she's saying that I'm letting my father win, that I'm letting everyone control me, that I have PTSD. I didn't think it was possible for me to break any further but it _is_ and I've never, ever in my life felt this way, so helpless and useless and so unimportant and all I do is hurt people and why can't I just be _normal_, why can't my family love me and why can't Kurt love me and I feel myself physically rip in half and I have to run out of the room before I bleed all over the secrets scattering the floor—_

I gasped for air, sobbing, and my hands clawed at my arms, trying to tear and scratch anything they could. I felt Rachel grab my fingers and hold them in her own, and it's only then that I realized I was back in our apartment. I didn't know when I got there, or how, but I didn't care because all I wanted was to feel the warmth of my blood flowing from my veins – emptying, emptying, emptying until I was gone, gone, gone.

If I couldn't beat the grief, I would simply drown in it.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to a pair of unfamiliar arms wrapped around me and low, hushed voices.

Immediately, I remembered the night before because it felt like I'd swallowed glass and the gauze pad taped over my wrist was burning my skin. There was a weight in me that hadn't been there before – the heaviness of the realization that you're wrong, that you're not what you thought you were. It came flooding back in a single, terrifying instant, hitting me in the chest so hard that I had to center myself, keep my breathing even and steady. My head was buried in someone's chest so everything was muffled, but I did my best to make out the conversation.

"I've never seen him this bad," I heard Rachel say in a thick voice.

"Even in Lima? Right after Kurt left?" Unmistakably, that was the voice of my brother. My brother, who lived in Ohio. My brother, who I hadn't seen in almost four months, after he stayed with us for three weeks when I started therapy. It was then that I realized that it was his arms I was in, and I didn't even have the energy to feel embarrassed.

"Cooper, you weren't there last night. You didn't – he wouldn't stop screaming, and crying, and—" I heard a soft sniffle, and then I heard Cooper tell her, "It's going to be okay, Rachel. I'm here. I can stay as long as he needs me."

"We're the only family he's got, we can't leave him."

He kissed the top of my head, tightening his hold around me, and whispered, "We won't."

I couldn't take it anymore, and whether it was because of the previous night or because of the physical pain I felt in that moment or because Cooper was there, I didn't know. But the dams were breaking around me, causing my walls to go crashing and my world to go spinning, compressing my body into a tiny, tiny little box that stole all of the breath from my lungs. I didn't know what would happen that day, or the next, or even to my life. I didn't know if I was going to try and commit suicide again. I didn't know if I would go back to therapy. I didn't know anything at all. But I knew that I had to cry, so I did.

"Shh," he murmured, rocking me. He didn't seem shocked that I was awake; he merely opened his arms wider and let me clutch his shirt in my hands while the tears pushed themselves out of my eyes, and I was grateful. "You're going to be okay. We'll make sure of it, alright? I promise you, buddy. You're gonna get through this."

I cried, chest heaving with sobs. "It – it hurts so _much_, and I hate myself, Cooper, I hate myself."

The bed dipped and suddenly Rachel was there, hugging the part of me that wasn't on Cooper. "Well then we can love you enough for the three of us."

* * *

On the day of my next session, I stayed in bed and refused to go, because I just didn't want to. I didn't want to hear the same shit again – how I needed to face this, how I could get through it if I just tried hard enough, how I had PTSD and should be on medication for it. So I locked my door and ignored the voices outside telling me that I had to go, that I should to talk to her. They sat for hours, doing everything they could to coax me out. Eventually, Cooper got sick of my silent refusal to move and got a screwdriver to pop the lock. I watched as Rachel stopped him before he could go inside, putting a hand on his chest.

"Let me handle this one," she told him quietly, and he agreed to leave the two of us alone for a few minutes.

She walked up to me, kneeling in front of my bed with her head resting on the tops of her hands. "Come on, B. Don't do this."

I said nothing.

"You can't die for him, Blaine," she told me thickly. "You don't have to be buried with him."

"He's not dead," I replied, my words scratchy and wavering with sadness. My stomach dropped as a tiny, miniscule thought in my brain once again made itself known. _What if he is? _I shoved the anxiety and unease out of my head; it wasn't like this was the first time I'd contemplated that, not at all. Back in Lima, it was a common theme in my nightmares: not that Kurt had left me, but the mere thought that he could be dead somewhere, that he could have left to kill himself without the spectacle. Cooper told me, about six weeks after he'd gone when I finally confessed what I dreamt about, that if Kurt had turned up somewhere, Burt would have been called to identify the body. So I clung to that hope because I didn't have another choice.

"But he is to you. That's how you think of him now."

I didn't deny it, because I knew it was true.

"You have to move on," she murmured. "You have to – to live, and smile, and grow up. You have to grow up, Blaine." I could hear the cracks in her voice, the unspoken _you can't kill yourself. _"You – you have to find your job and get married and have kids. I need to be the maid of honor at your wedding and Cooper can be your best man because you get both of us, you always have, and we're gonna be Aunt Rachel and Uncle Cooper and you're gonna live across the hall from me forever if I can help it and I just –"

"But he's my person," I argued, throat tight with the unshed tears waiting to fall. "He's _my person_, and I _need_ him and he's not here."

She stood and made a move to get into the bed with me, but I told her that I wanted to be alone.

"No you don't," she answered, crawling under the covers anyways. "And you don't need him. You're your own person and you don't need to rely on someone else for your happiness. You need yourself, that's it."

Despite my words, I let her hug me. She pulled me onto her chest and wrapped her arms around my back as she sniffled.

"Find that one thing that makes you strong, Blaine. Latch onto it."

"I know there was something before him," I began, "but I just – I can't remember it. I don't want to remember it."

"You have to. You have to remember life without him. There's no other option. We all have to accept that he's not coming back."

"He has to."

I heard the hitch of her breath and felt a pang in my heart. This is exactly what I didn't want. I was hurting them because I felt this way, because I was so dead set in my denial, and I couldn't stand it. I was causing so much unnecessary pain and I couldn't fathom the idea of going through life like that. I knew he was gone, I did. I think I'd known from the second I woke up that morning by myself that I'd never see him again. That's why it was so hard; that's why it had always _been_ so hard.

"I'll always be this – someone who people use and then leave. Someone who can't move on. Someone stuck in limbo, waiting for a reason to start living again. Broken. I'm not worth it. I don't get why you guys can't understand that," I told her, voice cracking, shaking my head against her.

"You're not broken," she whispered fiercely, kissing the back of my head. "You're just a little bent."

* * *

**October 14****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"Underneath" by Blaine Anderson

_Strip away the flesh and bone_  
_Look beyond the lies you've known_  
_Everybody wants to talk about a freak_  
_No one wants to dig that deep_  
_Let me take you underneath_

_Baby, better watch your step_  
_Never mind what's on the left_  
_You're gonna see things you might not wanna see_  
_Still not that easy for me, underneath_

_A red river of screams,_  
_Underneath_  
_Tears in my eyes,_  
_Underneath_  
_Stars in my black and blue sky_  
_And underneath,_  
_Under my skin_  
_Underneath the depths of my sin_  
_Look at me_  
_Now do you see?_

_Welcome to my world of truth_  
_I don't wanna hide any part of me from you_  
_I'm standing here with no apologies_  
_Such a beautiful release_  
_You inside of me_

_A red river of screams,_  
_Underneath_  
_Tears in my eyes,_  
_Underneath_  
_Stars in my black and blue sky_  
_And underneath,_  
_Under my skin_  
_Underneath the depths of my sin_  
_Look at me_  
_Now do you see?_

_I wrote this because I hurt. Every part of me aches, because of Kurt and my parents and the things I do to screw up my life. I can't do anything right and maybe that's why all of these things are happening to me. I couldn't make my parents happy; I couldn't make them love me. I couldn't make Kurt love me enough to stay and I couldn't make him better or deal with him leaving. Hell, I can't even deal with being alive._

_I'm depressed and living with PTSD, apparently. Because I was too weak to stand up to my parents then and because now I'm too fucking pathetic to accept the fact that Kurt's been gone for __years__._

_I want to die, but I can't. Rachel and Cooper don't leave me alone long enough to be able to do it._

* * *

**October 17****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"_I'm not brave anymore, darling. I'm all broken. They've broken me." _– _Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

About a week after the day I refused to go to therapy, I was in the bathroom with a blade on my skin when I heard a knock on the door. I had the shower running to hide what I was doing, which gave me a reason to be in there for at least ten minutes. I wasn't expecting anyone to question me, so I jumped, heart pounding, when Cooper's voice sounded through walls, accompanied by banging.

"Blaine? Blaine, let me in. It's been a half hour."

"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered to myself, frantically moving to scoop the blades into my hands. I rushed to pick them up, and in the process, I sliced the skin of my palm by accident. Blood began to run down my wrist and I panicked. Up until that point, I had only cut on my leg and thigh while in New York because I was easily able to cover it up with pants or blankets, but there was no way that I would be able to conceal that wound. Tears burned in my eyes as I threw everything under the sink, furiously scrubbing at the floors with toilet paper to try and mop up the red staining it. I shoved that into the garbage can and quickly pulled more off the roll to put on top of it. The tiles were tinted pink because I had been careless and sloppy, and now I didn't have time to clean it up. I usually did it over the sink or actually in the shower so that I could wash it away with water, but I wasn't thinking clear enough. I just collapsed on the floor and started to rip the blade down my skin without even realizing it. I'd lost track of time and now I didn't know what to do, so I ran my shaking hands through my hair, paralyzed and absolutely terrified. My knees buckled and my breathing began to accelerate.

Suddenly, the door opened and it took Cooper approximately three seconds to assess the situation before he was throwing himself at me.

"Rachel! Fuck, Rachel!" he yelled, snatching a washcloth off of the cabinet and wetting it. "Rachel!"

He dropped to the ground in front of me just as she came running into the room. She immediately gasped, one hand flying to her chest and the other covering her mouth. Cooper pulled my own hand off of my lips, swearing when he saw the blood. He tried to wipe it off, but I pulled out of his grasp and squeezed my fist, causing more to slip down my arm.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Blaine," he said, yanking it back into his grasp. He forcefully opened my fingers and pressed the cloth to my cut as I curled in on myself, sobbing.

"No no no," I cried. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. Oh god, I'm sorry."

Rachel, who finally moved, rushed over to me and wrapped her arms around my stomach as Cooper rinsed the cloth. The slice on my palm had bled all over my shirt and gotten smeared on my face, mixing with the warm tears spilling over my cheeks.

"Stop it! Stop! Leave me alone!" I screamed, thrashing. "I can't do this anymore!"

"You're fucking gonna!" Cooper screamed back.

"You don't know anything! You don't understand!"

"What the hell don't I understand, Blaine? Tell me! I think I understand pretty goddamn well!"

"Stop trying to save me," I choked out, gasping on the air I was trying to breathe in. "Just – I can't – please, please, _please_," I cried brokenly, the fight fading out of my body. Rachel kept her hold on me, her arms wound tightly across my shoulder and chest. She was curled with me, the side of her head against my ear.

"Shh," she whispered. "It's okay. You're gonna be okay."

"I won't," I exhaled brokenly. "I won't."

"Look at me, Blaine," Cooper said firmly. When I wouldn't, he put his hands on the side of my face and made me. "You don't need this. You don't. You don't need it and you don't need Kurt. Fuck him. Fuck everything, okay? Fuck our parents and fuck _everyone_. You're gonna show all of them, Blaine." He looked me in the eyes, and I was still crying when Rachel let him pull me into his embrace. He held the back of my head and I threw my arms around him, hugging tight. "Fuck, you can't pull shit like this, B. You can't. Rach and I love you more than you'll ever know, okay? We can't lose you."

I nodded, but stayed silent for fear of what would come out of my mouth.

_ You'd be better off without me_, I thought. _But I love you too_.

* * *

After that night, I was no longer allowed to leave the house without either of them. They forced me to tell them where I'd kept the blades hidden, how I had concealed them, and they threw them all out. They called Henley and I felt any scrap of dignity I had left crumble and disintegrate, cringing as I heard Rachel relaying a very watered-down version of what had happened.

I still had to go to therapy, because I'd missed one week and everything had been shot to hell. Every Monday, Rachel or Cooper (sometimes both) would take a cab with me to Henley's office and wait for me to finish so that they could walk me home. One of them would accompany on my run every day and they no longer let me go twice because Henley had told them not to let me overwork myself. On the rare occasions that they _did_ let me go by myself, they made me promise and swear to them that I wouldn't go get blades or hurt myself. I always promised, always swore, but the first thing I would do when I got out of the apartment was run to the nearest drug store, buy my release, and then sit in the bathroom and draw patterns on the inside of my thigh. I never used to cut in public, because it wasn't something I particularly liked or enjoyed doing, but it was the only thing that kept me going at the time.

* * *

In late October, I'd begun having sex as a form of rebellion.

At first, I had been repulsed by the thought of being intimate with anyone that wasn't Kurt, of sharing myself with other people and letting them touch and see me at my most vulnerable. Since he'd been gone, I hadn't been with anyone else because I hadn't _wanted_ to. Kurt was the only one I felt that would ever love me enough to see all of my scars – from the Sadie Hawkins dance, from the blades, from my father – and to stay with me despite them. And without him, I didn't feel worthy of any of that. I didn't deserve to feel loved in that way, nor was I ready to _be_ loved in that way.

But then one night, I was extremely angry and very drunk. I was walking home, trying to clear my mind of Kurt, and I ended up stumbling into someone. It was a guy, probably around my age, who'd I guessed had almost as much to drink as I had since he looked like he'd just come from hours at the club. He asked if I was okay, so I told him I wasn't. He then asked if there was anything he could do to help me, and because I was so furious at everything, because I wanted to be self-destructive, because I needed release, I surged forward. I desperately crashed my mouth against his, all teeth-clanking and frantic, and it went from there.

It was something I continued doing because it was something I needed; it was never something I _wanted_. I wasn't proud of it by any means, but it was the only option available to me. I would go out, get drunk, and wake up around five in the morning with a boy I wouldn't remember. All of the vodka and whiskey and anything else I could get my hands on numbed the pain and made me forget everything, if only for a little while. It made me feel warm and courageous and I could actually _do_ things without feeling crippled by all of the emotions running rampant inside my head. It made everything go quiet.

On some nights, I was able to pretend that it was Kurt that I was making love to – slow and sweet and gentle. I remembered times with us wrapped up in sticky sheets, panting and smiling and glowing with nothing but pure love and the rush that only comes from physical intimacy. I let myself remember what it felt like to be in his embrace, in his arms, to make him feel good and to let him make me feel good.

But on other nights, when I was enraged and infuriated, I fucked strangers (there really was no other word for it) simply because I could. Because he wasn't there and I needed him to be. Because I hated him, in those moments, for making me resort to that. Because it was something I could do with no strings attached. Because I needed to feel loved, even if it was only pretend.

There were still parts of myself that I saved. There were things I didn't let the random boys I'd found do to me, things that I had the self-decency to keep untouched. The boys I was with never asked why and they never asked about the cuts littering my body. I walked in, did what I needed to do, and left. Sometimes, they were asleep before I even got out the door, and that was something I grew accustomed to.

It was a rough couple of months.

* * *

**November 17****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"The Greatest Casualty" by Blaine Anderson

_The greatest casualty of heartache, I've realized, is not the loss of the love itself._

_It is the loss of him, of course, that sometimes makes you want to end it all – your heartbeat and your breathing and the blood that courses through your veins._

_But more than that, it is the loss of you as a pair, one that lives in sync and moves together._

_It is the loss of his soft touches at two am when you are crying and aching inside._

_It is the loss of tangled feet and secret smiles shared over meals together._

_It is the loss of a warm Sunday morning, nestled under a blanket, bodies humming with contentment and lips busy tasting each other._

_It is the loss of a head on a shoulder, fingers twined with one another, an arm wrapped around a stomach._

_It is the loss of a promise of forever, always._

_It is the loss of your sweaty skin mixing with his and gasps and delicate touches and cool hands and whispers of "I love you so much"._

_It is the loss of a future, a dream – all of your plans and thoughts and hopes for your life._

_It is the loss of everything you've ever known._

_It is the loss of __yourself__, more than anything,_

_Not always him,_

_That tears you up inside,_

_Makes you regret the day before it even begins,_

_Causes you to take a blade to your skin_

_to_

_just_

_make_

_it_

_stop._

* * *

**November 24****th****, 2014 – Therapy**

"When I say the following questions or words, I want you to tell me the first thing that pops into your head, okay? Don't think, just answer," Henley told me.

I nodded and closed my eyes, sighing. On that particular day – on most days, actually – I just really didn't want to be there.

"What's your name?" she asked.

_ "Blaine."_

"What's your favorite color?"

_ "Maroon."_

"How old are you?"

_ "Nineteen."_

"Music."

_ "Everything."_

"School."

_ "Boring but necessary."_

"Family."

_ "Rachel and Cooper."_

"Kurt.

"No." I immediately sat up, rigid. "I'm done. You know how I feel about him."

"One word, Blaine, that's it," she countered. "What do you think of when you think about Kurt? You can do it, come on."

"Fine. Abandoned," I spit out, angry that she was making me say them out loud and that I was doing it and that they were the things that I actually felt because of him. "Or maybe lies. Or heartache or grief or _just like my family_, and look, there's a whole goddamn sentence. Happy?"

"If you had gotten the chance to say goodbye, would it have made a difference?" She disregarded my fury, sitting back in her chair and looking at me. "Would you be as hurt if he'd said goodbye?"

"I said I'm done. Drop it."

I didn't have an answer because I simply didn't know.

* * *

**November 29****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"Awake" by Blaine Anderson

_everything is muted_

_like I'm hearing through someone else's ears_

_feeling through hands I don't recognize_

_seeing through eyes that aren't my own_

_I am living through a different body_

_because nothing co nn ec t__s_

_or makes sense_

_or matters_

_I don't remember when I became like this_

_whether it was before _

_or after him_

_I guess it doesn't matter_

_I am unattached_

_f l_

_o a _

_t i _

_n g_

_sleepwalking through days I don't_

_bother to count anymore_

_and everyone's words ring in my ear_

_drown in my lungs_

_clot in my veins_

_get lost in space_

_the only time I feel awake_

_is when I chop myself_

_to pieces_

_so that my outsides_

_match my insides_

_or when I feel the sharp sting _

_of the tequila sliding down _

_the back of my throat_

_or when I'm pushed up against_

_a dirty stall in the bathroom_

_of a club I won't remember _

_in the morning_

_and that's the only thing_

_that makes sense_

_to me anymore_

* * *

**December 2****nd****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

_I hate you._

_I miss you._

_I hate you._

_I hate you._

_I need you._

_I hate you._

_I hate you._

_I hate myself._

_I hate myself._

_I hate myself._

* * *

**December 3****rd****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"_Monsters are real and ghosts are real too. They live inside us and sometimes, they win." – S.K._

* * *

**December 7****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

"Underground" by Blaine Anderson

_When you're gone_  
_When you're gone, it's like I'm in one second in time_  
_I'm frozen_  
_When you're gone_  
_When you're gone, it's like I lost one half of my mind_  
_Stolen_

_Cause nobody feels you like I do_  
_Nobody kills me like you do_  
_Nothing I take can ever cut through_  
_I'm in trouble_  
_I look at myself and I don't know_  
_How I'm stuck to you like velcro_  
_Can't rip you off and go solo_  
_I'm in trouble_

_I'm hooked on how you made_  
_Me hooked, I'm gonna say it straight_  
_I want you, I need you_  
_I want you to take me underground_  
_I'm hooked; I can't cut you off_  
_In my blood; I'm gonna say it now_  
_I want you, I need you_  
_I want you to take me underground_

_When you go_  
_When you go, it's like I put my life on the line_  
_It's over_  
_When you go_  
_When you go, I'm tripping but I'm pretending I'm fine_  
_So dumb_

_Cause nobody feels you like I do_  
_Nobody kills me like you do_  
_Nothing I take can ever cut through_  
_I'm in trouble_  
_I look at myself and I don't know_  
_How I'm stuck to you like velcro_  
_Can't rip you off and go solo_  
_I'm in trouble_

_I'm hooked on how you made_  
_Me hooked, I'm gonna say it straight_  
_I want you, I need you_  
_I want you to take me underground_  
_I'm hooked; I can't cut you off_  
_In my blood; I'm gonna say it now_  
_I want you, I need you_  
_I want you to take me underground_

* * *

**December 13****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

_I've decided that I really don't want to feel anymore. _

_Alcohol is a great way to numb your brain. So is sex, if you let it. I've been using them as ways to feel alive but really, I should be using them as ways to turn everything off._

* * *

**December 20****th****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

_I feel empty, but there isn't enough room for anything in my body anymore. It takes too much effort to have emotions. It takes too much effort to do anything. I'm exhausted._

* * *

**December 23****rd****, 2014 – Blaine's Journal**

_I either feel too much or I don't feel enough. I've never known what gray was._

* * *

**December 29****th****, 2014 – Therapy**

"That night – I said I wouldn't go back to his house," I began in a faraway voice. "That's what I told myself. But I went anyways. His father, he was home. I went up to Kurt's room and I just laid in his bed and thought about everything, going over every detail. I'd missed so much and I was so angry at myself. I knew it was bad, but I never expected him to just – to leave and not tell anyone."

"How did that make you feel?" Henley asked me.

"Like it was my fault."

"It was your fault because he left?"

"I don't – I don't know. It felt like it was because I was supposed to have been there for him and make sure he didn't go over the edge."

"But weren't you? You told me you helped him with his self harm issues and his depression for most of the time you were together."

"And I did, but I didn't realize when it really mattered."

"Not everyone can know everything, Blaine. And even if you had known, it wouldn't have made a difference. You can't force someone to get better. You can't force them to stay. They have to want to get better and want to help themselves; making him stay with you would have only increased his desire to want to get out."

I stared at the wall behind her blankly, numb to what was happening around me. Her words made it to my ears but they were distorted somehow, like I was hearing them underwater. It was all just background noise, as if the blood in my veins had suddenly turned into melted lead, sluggishly chugging its way through my body while it filled my brain with a low, constant hum. I was so, so tired.

"I've never told anyone this," I said after a long moment of pause. When I let the words fall from my mouth, I felt nothing – none of the pain or hurt or anger I'd felt when I experienced it. I just felt drained. I just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. "After I left Kurt's, I drove to my old house. I sat at the corner of the street for ten minutes, just staring at it. Remembering all of the unspeakable things my father did to me there. How I was never good enough. How he never loved me, even before I came out. How much I hated myself living there." I stopped and the silence surrounded us like a heavy fog.

"What happened after?" She wasn't saying much, I realized. She was guiding me into talking more, as if that would actually help. I knew it wouldn't; I'd been talking for months and months and nothing had changed. I only talked now because if I didn't, Rachel and Cooper would know something was wrong. Well, wronger than it was before. Not because she would tell them – she couldn't, it was confidential – but because I knew that I would skip the sessions so Cooper wouldn't be wasting his money. And it wasn't even difficult to admit all of what I was telling her out loud, surprisingly, since it was the same thing I'd been writing in my journal for months. It wasn't something new to me, so I wasn't _admitting_ anything, really. I believed it with everything I had; my mouth was just the medium to speak it.

"I realized how much I still hated myself. So I went home and tried to cut out all of the parts I didn't like."

She sat up straighter in her chair, setting her notepad aside. "We've talked about your self-harm in the past, a lot. We've analyzed it, why you do it, when you do it, how it makes you feel when you do it. I've got something I want you to try as an alternative, since the other options haven't been working, okay?"

"Yeah." I didn't ask how she knew I was still cutting; I hadn't told her. Or at least, I hadn't out rightly mentioned it. Though I suppose she was just adept at picking up the minute and diminutive clues of a cutter – the smudge in the cover-up makeup, the involuntary and unconscious dragging of fingers up and down an arm, the way breathing hitched when they passed over a certain spot. It was her job, after all.

"We know that cutting is an outlet for unwanted feelings and that it releases endorphins to help us control those feelings. But _you_ need to be the one in control, not your cutting, so I want you to talk back to that voice in your head that tells you to cut."

I scoffed with an empty laugh. "Do you honestly think that'll help?"

"Hear me out, Blaine. I know you keep a journal now, but instead of writing down all of your negative thoughts, I want you to try to write down your positive thoughts. Anything good that happened to you that day, a motivational quote – anything that can foster an encouraging atmosphere. I think we've talked about a lot of the stuff that's making you feel this way and you've written a lot about it, so now it's time to take all of the materials we have and make something out of it. Everything's on the table now and you have to focus now on sorting through these feelings and emotions and coming to terms with them all. Which is also why I want you to do something else. I want you to start a blank page and title it 'Reasons To Recover'. And on that list, I want you to write down all of the reasons that you have for wanting to better yourself and all of the things you want to get better _for_. Can you do that? I want you to try and add two or three reasons each week, okay? And every time you feel the urge to cut, I want you to read those reasons and remember why you're doing this."

"Okay," I responded, within no intention of actually following through. I was there out of obligation, so I had a front I could fall back on. Of course I was getting better. No, I didn't cut anymore. No, I didn't think about suicide. I was fine. They didn't have to know that I was drinking and having sex and slicing my skin – a kind of high, a rush that distracted me from all the pain and the noise in my head, or that sparked me to life and let me feel alive when I didn't want to feel so numb. Sometimes I just couldn't decide. Today, I needed emptiness. Tomorrow? Maybe I would want to know that I wasn't dead, so the red would assure me of my life.

"I wrote two more songs," I told her flatly as I was leaving. "_Underneath_ and _Underground_. I just thought you should know."

"They have similar titles," she noted. "How come?"

"Because…" I paused, trying to remember what I'd felt when I wrote them. It was hard, feeling so detached then, to conjure up those intense, soul-wrenching emotions I'd experienced only days and weeks before. "I guess because I feel like I'm being drowned by all of this."

"Who was supposed to stop you from going over the edge?" she asked as I turned to open the door.

"No one. You see, that's the thing about life," I said with a sigh. "It's rarely fair."

And then I left.

* * *

Sometime in the middle of January, I'd fallen through the ocean of my pain and hit rock bottom, if that was even possible for me. Throughout the last several months, Rachel and Cooper had only known that I "went out". I never told them where, letting them assume when I came home sweaty that I'd decided to go on a midnight run. I slipped out when they weren't looking, knowing full well that I'd be lectured when I came home and checked over for cuts. Lucky for me, they let me keep my boxers on, but that's exactly where all the marks were: on my hips and my thighs. I guess they thought they knew me well enough to think that I wouldn't go that far, but I was desperate and took advantage of that. As time went on and I became more careless, they tried to stop me, but it hadn't worked, of course. If someone self-destructive doesn't want to be stopped, they aren't stopped. It's that simple. But then there was one night where they refused to allow my harmful, damaging games to continue any further, and well, that was the end.

It was around seven am when I stumbled my way up the stairs to my apartment. I was so far past drunk at that point and I'd lost count of how many drinks I'd had. I couldn't remember how many guys I'd found that night, or how many of the passionate kisses on the dance floor turned into much, much more than that in a dirty bathroom stall. I could still feel the rhythmic bass of the music pumping in my veins, the sweaty hands running over my heated body, the adrenaline rush of another drink and another pair of lips. I'd been unable to stop myself, instead choosing to forge ahead as each new stranger introduced themselves.

Usually, I would find a boy – just one – and go home with him after a few hours of kissing and dancing, a couple of shots in my bloodstream as liquid courage. However, on that particular night, I found it nearly impossible to turn down offers for the free drinks that inevitably led to ripped clothing and lowered inhibitions. I lacked all restraint, and in all honesty, any morals that I'd had for myself.

Which led me to where I was _after_ all of that, laughing as I leaned against the doorframe, repeatedly buzzing the bell because I'd lost my key somewhere. Once there was no immediate answer, I held my finger down on the button. I heard a small crash and then the door swung open to reveal the relieved but angry faces of Rachel and Cooper. She instantly pulled me into a hug and before she had the chance to release me, my brother was yelling.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "It's seven in the goddamn morning! We've been worried sick!"

"Out," I said, hiccupping as I moved past them to step inside. "Gettin' some dick," I half-whispered, giggling as they sputtered and stared at me.

"How much have you had to drink?" Rachel asked slowly, shutting the door.

"Shh." I put a finger to my lips, looking around. "We have to be quiet. Because – because the pandas."

"Blaine, there are no panda's," Cooper sighed, irritated as he ran a hand over his face. He walked over to me and put his hands on my shoulders, fingers under my chin as he examined my eyes. "How much did you drink?"

"This much!" I flung my arms out, nearly hitting him in the face. I leaned in close to Rachel, whispering, "you know, Cod – Cody, or Nick, or maybe it was Alex, his thingy – his thingy was that big too."

"Jesus," I heard Cooper exhale. He took me by my elbow and sat me on the couch, looking me firmly in the eye. "Don't move." I tried to be serious, but I broke and started laughing, falling back onto the cushions.

"I think I moved," I blurted out in between laughs, and then said, in a sing-song voice, "I'm gonna get in truuuh-ble."

"Go get him some water, Rach," Cooper muttered, and then squatted in front of me. "Alright, Blaine."

I looked around, glancing behind me over my shoulder. "Blaine? Where are you?" I whispered.

"You. You're Blaine."

"Ooohhhhh. That makes – that makes a'lotta sense. Blaine. Me."

"You're drunk."

"As a skunk," I slurred, smiling.

"And _why _are you this drunk?" he asked, sitting on the coffee table.

"Because they kept offering me drinks and I – I couldn't say no and they tasted so good, and these b-boys," I replied, hiccupping, "they were so hot, and they wanted me, so I just—"

"What are you talking about, _they _wanted you?" His voice had risen, the confusion evident.

"They wanted my ass. Lots of boys."

"I see. And you thought you'd just sleep with them? Because they gave you drinks?"

"Oh, no, no, Coop." I shook my head, putting a finger in the air. "I didn't_ thought_. I _did_."

"You did," he deadpanned, throwing a look at Rachel, who had been standing behind him with a bottle of water in her hands.

"Much," I confirmed. "I did much. Many times."

His head fell into his palms and he let out a long breath.

"Were you at least safe?" Rachel asked quietly, setting the bottle down and coming to sit on the couch next to me.

"No – no time," I answered. "Too fast."

"Oh my god," she said, turning to look at Cooper. "What do we do?"

He said nothing and instead got up, putting his hands on the side of my face, forcing me to look at him. "Why?"

"Because I felt like it."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes it is," I told him, defiant and annoyed, and he threw his arms up in frustration.

"You can't come home like this, completely _trashed_, and think I'm just gonna let you off the hook! You can't go and have sex with random guys, Blaine! Do you know how dangerous it is? That's not even you!"

"You're not the boss of me! You don't know what I _am_, anymore, Cooper!" I yelled back, standing. "You're not dad! You can't tell me who I'm not!"

"You're sure as shit right I'm not dad!"

"Cooper—" Rachel cut in, attempting to stop me from getting up. "You shouldn't do this now."

"I shouldn't?" he asked, laughing sarcastically. "Why do you think he's drunk, Rachel?"

"Because he's having a hard time—"

"And _why_ is he having a hard time?"

"I'm right here!" I interrupted, starting to sober up quickly due to my sudden irrational anger. "Stop fucking talking about me!"

"Then answer my question!" he snapped, turning back to me. "Why did you go out? How the hell did you even get _into _the club? We turn around for ten seconds and then you're just gone!"

"I'm not five years old! You can't keep me locked up in this apartment!"

"Watch me," he dared. "Ever since October you've been spiraling out of control. You're lying to us and you're keeping secrets, and apparently you're going out to drink and have sex, too!"

"I've been fucking doing _that_ since _October_ and you never noticed," I countered loudly, cheering internally at the look on his face. "You honestly think this is the first time I've done this? If I want to get drunk and go fuck somebody, then I will!"

"No you won't!" he yelled. "And do you honestly think we haven't known? We're not stupid, Blaine, come on. We've had an idea for a long time, you just wouldn't let us stop you. But you're done now. You're insane if you think we're letting you out of our sight after this."

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want." I shoved out of Rachel's hold and ran into the kitchen. They dashed after me, tugging on my shirt. "Stop! Let me go!"

"Not until you calm down." He put a hand on my chest, holding me to the wall.

"I don't want to calm down! I want to be fucking pissed off!"

"Then be pissed off! But don't go and have a bunch of unsafe sex and drink yourself into oblivion!"

"Why the fuck not?" I asked, flinging my arms into the air.

"Because it's self-destructive!"

"That's the fucking point!" I screamed, tears burning in the corners of my eyes. "God, that's the _fucking _point. Fuck, let go of me!" I struggled against his grip, infuriated.

"Cooper, let him go," Rachel said quietly, so he did. I threw his arm off of me, pacing around the kitchen. I put a hand to my mouth and she stayed next to Cooper, giving me my space.

"I just – he's not here and it's _so hard_ and I just – I can't do it, I can't," I gasped, shaking my head as I felt warmth flooding down my cheeks. All of the emotions that I'd been stifling with every shot and every new boy came flooding out with no warning, hitting me all at once. "I still love him – or I feel _something_ for him – and I don't understand why. And then there's what happened with my stupid fucking parents and —" I let out an angry noise, wiping my eyes.

"Shh," she whispered, coming up to me and rubbing her hand up and down my arm.

"I was so pissed at him for doing this to me, and I met this guy on the street and then it all spiraled from there. It was so fast and I didn't even know what was happening until it did and now I—" I stopped, clenching my teeth together. "I'm so – so ash-ashamed."

"It's gonna be alright."

"You keep saying that but it never gets better," I replied in a thick, choked voice as my hand reached out to grip the counter.

"It's over now." She moved closer, asking silent permission to hug me. I nodded and she wrapped me in her arms tightly. "I won't let anything get worse. Okay? We need to call Henley and see if she's available tomorrow to move your appointment up, that's the first thing."

"And after that?"

"It doesn't matter now. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"She told me that she thinks – thinks I have PTSD," I eventually said into her shirt, sniffling.

"Then we'll get you on medication for it," she said gently, moving her hand over my back. "And we'll be here every step of the way, both of us."

"Yeah," Cooper interjected softly. "We can even go to therapy with you, if you want."

"Here," Rachel murmured, passing me to him. I immediately buried my face in his neck, cheeks still wet.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, B." His voice was cracked and filled with sincerity. "I just – I get so _worried_ about you, because you're so self-destructive and it breaks my heart to watch you do this to yourself."

"I'm sorry."

"I know," he sighed. "I know. It's gonna be okay."

* * *

**January 19****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

"Reminds Me Of You" by Blaine Anderson

_I gotta get outta here,_  
_This town's no longer fun_  
_And I'm falling closer, falling closer,_  
_Closer to the sun_  
_I gotta get outta here,_  
_Come kiss another face_  
_'Cause it hurts too bad, it hurts too bad_  
_And I don't like the taste_

_You say it's over, leaving me so far from sober_  
_Now summer's cold and I lean on a stranger's shoulder_  
_I walk the streets and hear heartbeats in city smolder_  
_Without a trace, I'm under_

_And God knows I've tried_  
_Looking for lovers at night_  
_But each time I do,_  
_It only reminds me of you_  
_It only reminds me of you_  
_I gotta get outta here_  
_'Cause you'll never want me back_  
_You are moving on, moving on_  
_And I'm stuck on the track_  
_I gotta get outta here_  
_Before I self-destruct_  
_And I don't want, and I don't want_  
_My heart to ever stop_

_I walk the streets and hear heartbeats in city smolder_  
_Without a trace, I'm under_

* * *

**February 2****nd****, 2015 – Therapy**

A few weeks later, I was sitting in Henley's office, determined to start sorting out my tangled mess of a life for what was hopefully a final attempt. I'd had time to come to terms with everything and make a list of the things I needed answering, but it didn't make it any easier.

"Okay, so you said you have questions," she said right as she closed her office door. "About your diagnosis?"

"Yes," I replied, trying to calm my nerves. I knew the only way that I would be able to move past anything was if I did my best to help treat my depression and PTSD, and that meant that I had to _understand_ them. I couldn't get angry and ignore what she was trying to tell me, because I was beginning to realize that I _did_ have these illnesses. "You said I have depression, but it's like it fades in and out. Sometimes it's really bad and sometimes it's manageable. During this past six months it's been nearly unbearable, but all of last year I was able to shove it into the back of my brain and forget about it. I've been able to push the sadness away, or at least I was able to at some points, but Kurt couldn't do that. He became engulfed in it and it consumed him. Why did it take longer for that to happen to me?"

"Because a lot of people with depression are in denial about having it and because everyone's different. So I think that's what you were doing, because you kept yourself busy to the point where you exhausted yourself. You didn't have the _time_ to come to terms with the things that led to your depression – Kurt's absence and your father. Then again, we can't ever really be sure as to what caused it, but I feel like it's the combination of those that makes it act up. Because when you aren't thinking about your father or about Kurt, the symptoms tend to lessen, right? Like when you're drinking or trying to escape?"

"Yeah, they do..." I paused, frustrated. "I can't do this on-again, off-again for the rest of my life. I can't."

"And you won't, okay? That's why you're here, isn't it? I'm going to prescribe you medication that's going to help treat your depression and PTSD. How long you'll have to take it depends on your reaction to it and whether or not it works for you. It can take a few tries to find the right medication for your diagnosis and your body, but hopefully this one will work."

"What are you going to give me?" I asked.

"Prozac is what I'm going to start you off with." _That's what Kurt was on, _I thought to myself_._ "I'd give it a couple of weeks of regular, constant intake to see if it has a positive outcome on you, and then another eight to twelve months after that to get the full effects. Therapy and medication is usually always the best way to go because they play off of each other and tend to work faster," she explained. "However, that being said, everything depends on you. If you're willing to work at this, the chance of you being able to beat these diagnosis' increases greatly. If you're going to drag yourself through therapy and not take your pills, then it's not going to work. But I have the upmost faith in you, Blaine, because I've seen what you can do. You were doing wonderfully in the beginning, and you had some setbacks, and that's okay, it happens. Like I said earlier, it's a catch twenty-two, because your depression and PTSD get worse when you're exposed to the things that caused and trigger it, which is all we talk about in here. So it's gonna be tough, but I know you can do it. You need to let yourself truly heal – you've been carrying around this weight for so long and you've got to let it go."

"I'm gonna try," I told her quietly, sucking in a breath. "I have another question."

"Okay, what's that?"

"Why do I have both? Is that common? You said that the Prozac would treat the PTSD and depression, but I still don't really understand. I mean, was it Kurt that did it? Was it my father? I don't…" I let my words trail off as my hands played nervously in my lap.

"It's alright to have questions, Blaine," she replied with a small smile. "I'm here to help you with whatever I can and you won't be able to move forward if you don't understand what you're dealing with. You have both in part because they're like sister diagnoses a lot of the time – when you have one, you usually have the other as well, especially in cases like yours. Many people that experienced something very traumatic, particularly in childhood, get PTSD. However, the symptoms of that may not show up until later in life, after something triggers it in your brain. The effects of PTSD usually lead to depression, and you told me that it caused you to cut and try and commit suicide, so being around Kurt – who did both of those things – aggravated it.

"Other symptoms include low self-esteem, anxiety, and avoiding anything related to the accident – all of which you do. That explains your denial last year, because what your father did was so traumatizing to you that your brain literally forced you to try and forget about it. And because you got so attached to Kurt and so used to having him around to help you with these things, _on top of_ loving him so deeply, it made it all that much worse when you didn't have him anymore. So I believe that it all leads back to your father, as I've said before, because I think that's where it all started. You have issues with abandonment, which led you to crave love and attention, so when you finally got that from Kurt, you latched onto it. You relied too much on him for your happiness, so something we've got to work on is you becoming your _own_ person. And because of all of that, your self-esteem is very low, which is why you blame yourself for their actions. It's very important that we help you understand that it was not your fault so that you can start gaining back some confidence. Without being able to believe in yourself, nothing will work."

"So I've had PTSD since my father did what he did, and those effects created my depression? And it gets aggravated when I'm put in situations that make me have to think about them?" I asked.

"Yes. "

"And then Kurt added onto it, making my depression worse when he left," I finished softly, swallowing. "Which caused my brain to shut down after it couldn't take anymore, and then that led to my – my cutting and… alcoholic and sexual issues. And my self-confidence is low because of both of them. Right?"

"Right," she confirmed. "It's kind of like how the stock market didn't actually cause the Great Depression. It was a whole bunch of other things that kept building and building for years before it, so the stock market crashing was only the spark. Kurt was your spark. All of these little things and moments have been adding up over your life, so Kurt leaving pushed things over the edge. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it does…"

"And when the body and the brain are in times of severe distress, it'll look for any out or release that it can. For you, it was cutting. And then you turned to alcohol and sex as a way of coping." I ran my hands over my face and through my hair, letting out a shaky breath. "You don't have to be embarrassed, Blaine. I'm not going to judge you in any way; I've seen a lot of this first hand with Charlotte and many of my patients have experienced what you've been through. I'm here to help. Okay?"

I closed my eyes softly, took another deep breath, and then removed my hands. "Okay. I just – this is all new to me, and I want to get better, I do. And I wish I hadn't done those things, no matter how much I wanted to at the time, but..."

"Don't look back and focus on what you did wrong or what you wish you could've changed. The only thing you can do at this point is move forward and try and get better."

"Would you consider bringing Charlotte in?" I asked nervously. "I mean, I know it's not exactly ethical practice or normal but I just think it would help a lot since she's been through the same thing, you know, and—"

"Blaine," she cut in with a small smile. "I think that would be just fine. She'd love to help, and I believe it could be very beneficial to you. I think it would be better if you two met somewhere that wasn't here, without me, and she'll sit down with you and talk to you about what you want to know. The source of this is revolved around what happened with your father, so if you can start working through that then it'll make everything else easier. I would bring your brother in as well, if you'd like, since he was there with you through that time. Between the three of us I'm sure we'll be able to find ways to help you move past this."

"Let's hope," I responded almost inaudibly. "Because I don't know how much longer I can take this."

* * *

The next few months were a frenzy of therapy sessions and doctor's visits. I began taking Prozac regularly while I worked out the roots of it with Henley and Cooper, even when I wanted to spit the pills down the sink. I pushed through the urge because I remembered what it had been like when Kurt wouldn't take his medication and I knew how much it had helped him, even when he hadn't been able to see it. My body reacted positively to them, like Henley hoped it would, and she told me that it would take a month or two for it to truly start kicking in. As long as I stayed on track and took my medication and continued to work hard in therapy, she said, there was no reason for me not to come out of this okay.

Talking with Charlotte was also an immense relief. She sat with me for hours and told me about her experience and the ways that she coped with it, which was something that I could relate to. Like me, she cut and tried to commit suicide, which only worsened her depression. She got drunk often, but had never been as bad as I was, and she didn't go out and have sex because she was with Henley during all of it. Hearing her describe in detail all of the things that she – and I – had done was eye-opening for me, because it let me become alarmingly aware of how detrimental my behavior was. Her parents were nearly identical to mine, as were our choice methods of release, so I felt that we had a special bond because of that. We hadn't talked much apart from work-related things, but after we'd traded stories and realized that we shared such a life-changing past, we quickly became close. I knew it was considered extremely unprincipled and rare practice to become friends with your therapist's significant other, but it didn't matter to me. Charlotte was linked to me in a specific way due to what we'd been through and she'd helped me so much, so it wasn't difficult to overlook that fact. I rarely saw Henley outside of therapy, because it was "unprofessional" practice, she'd said. And while I understood and knew in the back of my brain that it was bizarre, I had a nagging feeling that I wished we could be friends after all of this.

Once I realized what a dangerous and self-destructive life I was living, I committed to trying to treat my PTSD and depression rather than ignore them, so I learned to become more open in our sessions. Henley and Charlotte didn't replace Rachel and Cooper in any way – rather, they _all_ became acquainted and united with one goal in mind: to help me.

I continued to write, even more so than I had before. My journal had always been there for me and it was something I needed to get by without losing myself. I wrote a lot of songs during this period of my life, both about Kurt and myself, and it was so easy for me to get lost in my words and the piano. Music, above all else, was able to heal me in a way that other things couldn't.

I stopped drinking and going to clubs. I stopped having sex. I tried hard in therapy to talk about the things I wouldn't have before, like my parents and what they'd done to me during my childhood. I talked about the dreams of mine that they'd ignored, like my passion for music, and the dreams that I still had inside of me. I talked about Kurt and why I thought I had latched so tightly onto him, and I talked about myself – the person I had become and the person I wanted to be. I talked to her about why I'd started drinking in the first place and about why I'd continued to go to bars and sleep with men I didn't know. I talked about my desperate need to cut and the reason it was so relieving and comforting to me. I talked and I talked and I talked for hours on end – to Rachel, Henley, Cooper, and Charlotte. They were all there to listen to me, and for that I was grateful. On certain occasions Rachel and Cooper went with me to therapy, during the times I felt I would need them, but there were days that I just needed to be alone with Henley and work it out on my own. I did everything they all told me to do, because I wanted to get better. I was so sick of the way I was living my life and I just… couldn't do it anymore. I had to make an effort to get better, so I did.

I tried my hardest to stop cutting, but there were still nights that I slipped up and gave in to the blade that was calling out me. Every time I relapsed, I would go to Rachel or Cooper, defeated and ashamed because of what I'd done. They'd clean me up and we would talk about it, and eventually, after months and months of trying, those nights became few and far between.

We always worked through it.

* * *

**Blaine's Journal – Reasons To Recover**

_1\. Because Rachel and Cooper want me to get better_

_2\. Because I want to finish school_

_3\. Because I want to travel_

_4\. So Rachel and Cooper don't want to have to worry about me anymore_

_5\. Because I want to get married one day_

_6\. Because I want to watch Rachel and Cooper get married and have kids_

_7\. Because I want to be able to think about Kurt and not be in pain_

_8\. Because I don't want to have anymore scars_

_9\. So I can tell all of them that I beat my depression_

_10\. So I can prove my dad wrong_

_11\. Because I don't want to be afraid of the dark anymore_

_12\. Because I want to be happy_

_13\. Because I want my future kids to be proud of me_

_14\. Because I want to follow my dreams_

_15\. So that I can help other people who've gone through the same thing_

_16\. Because I want to be able to tell those people that it truly does get better_

_17\. So that all of these years of fighting weren't for nothing_

_18\. Because I don't want to feel guilty anymore_

_19\. So I can shave with a razor and not want to cut_

_20\. Because I'm sick of nightmares_

_21\. Because I want to live to see marriage equality_

_22\. So I don't ever have to wake up in a hospital again_

_23\. So that I don't have to be scared anymore_

_24\. Because alcohol and sex and cutting didn't fix my problems_

_24\. Because hating myself is exhausting_

_25\. Because I can't do this for the next 65 years_

_26\. Because I want to be able to love myself_

_27\. So that I can have a new life_

_28\. Because I don't want to have to lie anymore_

_29\. Because I want to fight for those who lost the battle_

_30\. Because I'm worth it_

* * *

_**A/N: Let me know what you think! Pretty please? :)**_


	14. Chapter 12

**A/N: This is the final section of Blaine's therapy! Yayyyy, you made it. There are two songs in this chapter: Say Something (A Great Big World) and Beam Me Up (Pink).**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to child abuse, PTSD, depression, and talk of religion.**

* * *

**Chapter 12 – This Is What Surviving Looks Like**

_(Blaine, February 2015 – December 2018)_

* * *

"_**The problem is that you don't just choose recovery. You have to keep choosing recovery, over and over and over again. You have to make that choice 5-6 times each day. You have to make that choice even when you really don't want to. It's not a single choice, and it's not easy." – **_**Carrie Arnold, What It Means To Choose Recovery**

* * *

**March 10****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal **

_Henley wanted me to write everything out one last time. She's been pretty set on me focusing on positive things lately, but this is an exercise she wanted me to do, so I'm doing it._

_In my short nineteen years, I've experienced a lot of pain – probably more than most people have to go through in a lifetime. _

_Even when I was a little kid, I was used to the cruel, taunting words of my classmates and my father. They rang in my ears and echoed in my head, reminding me that I would never be loved for being who I was, not if I didn't fit into the box they created for me. I learned to grow thick skin and keep to myself, eventually finding comfort in the way the razor sliced apart my skin and the color of my blood as it washed down the drain. I was barely thirteen._

_During my freshman year of high school, I was already more than aware of my sexuality. I knew what I was and who I was attracted to, but I made the decision to actively ignore all of the "sinful" thoughts I was having. I tried for months and months to get rid of something I knew was building inside me, like a cacophony of harshly screamed words: gay, homosexual, queer, __wrong__. It was spreading through me, filling my brain with a loud noise that I was never able to mute. And then one of my out, gay friends asked me to go to a Sadie Hawkins dance with him – as friends, even though we were both boys – and I knew the attention it would draw to me. It was just something you didn't __do__ in my small suburb of Lima, Ohio, and all throughout the night, people has stared at us, whispering in disgust as we walked by. When we finally left, I was the one that ended up paying the price. My friend's mom had already picked him up, and as I was pulling out my phone to call Cooper again, a couple of guys jumped me from behind. The shape of the crowbar they slammed into me with their clenched hands is imprinted in my gut, the sound of my tormented screams still chills my bones, the dark of my blood on the pavement stands out against my eyelids at night like red paint on a black and white canvas. _

_I'd been in the hospital for two weeks after that with fractured ribs, a severe concussion, internal bleeding, and casts on practically every part of my body. They told me I almost died, and I knew I owed my life to a stranger that happened to have been walking by the abandoned store near our school, otherwise I would've bled out on the streets. When my father (and therefore my mother) refused to pay for the surgeries, Cooper did. "If he hadn't gone with that boy or made it seem like he was a goddamn faggot, this wouldn't have happened," is what my father said. "My son is not gay and he brought this on himself. You want to save him? You pay for it." So he did, without hesitation. They left and it was him that stayed with me for those long, painful days where I did nothing but cry and wonder why I was so wrong in my father's eyes, so unlovable. It was him that helped care for me when I went home to a cold house with absent parents. It was him that rearranged his entire life to always be there for me, regardless of anything else that was going on at the time. And it was him that had finally been the one to take me away from them and the toxic, hateful environment they'd created, after they'd hurt me in irreparable ways._

_It was a mere six weeks after the dance when they found out I was gay. They overheard me talking to Cooper (who I'm sure already knew about my sexuality without me even telling him) and that was it. As my father kicked and punched and hurled his vicious words at my crumpling body – a mess of bloody, stringy stitches and cuts and bruised bones – my mother sat by and didn't do a single thing. For what seemed like hours, it was nothing but blinding, white-hot pain and all I could do was clench my teeth and wait for it to be over. And eventually, it was, when Cooper came racing in the door. Him and my father fought – a loud, nasty, awful fight – before my dad left, holding his hand to his throbbing jaw, telling him to take me and get out of the house. After being rushed to the hospital in critical condition, long weeks spent in the ICU, and lots of paperwork, Cooper officially became my legal guardian and I never saw my parents again. He transferred me to a new school, Dalton, but it didn't help like he thought it would. I was weighed down with a heavy guilt, the depression I've carried with me for so long just starting to make an appearance, and I tried to kill myself shortly after being released into his custody. I wasn't successful, but I continued to cut because it was the only relief I had from the pain I felt inside. _

_When I was sixteen and still dealing with the aftermath of all of those events, almost healed but not quite, I met a beautiful boy. He gave me the strength I needed to finally stop hurting myself, because he too liked to carve himself up from the inside out, and I saw the effect it had on him. He made me want to be strong for him, and though he lost almost every game that he ever played against the knives in the kitchen, he was the bravest person I ever knew. The war waging on in his head was a fatal one and he wore the battle scars on his arms, his legs, his heart. I tried to save him, but no amount of armor that I wore could've ever protected him from his one true adversary: his own mind. It told him to do things that he never should have done, like cut and keep secrets and get up on a warm July night and leave. It controlled him, and though he loved me with everything he had, though he wanted to get better, try harder, put the blades down and just __breathe__, that was never an option for him. So I had no choice but to stand by him for as long as he'd let me, frozen in time as I watched him slip between my fingers and fade away._

_And now I have to let all of that go. I've been through two and a half years of hell without Kurt and I've carried the shame of how my father treated me for nearly six. I just can't do it anymore, any of it. The nightmares and the anxiety and the terror that I'll never be loved or worth anything, instilled in me by my father and the bullies; the loneliness and the emptiness and the desperate need to run away – things left behind from my relationship with Kurt. _

_I have to get better. I have so many reasons to._

* * *

**March 16****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

_I learned about something really interesting in therapy today: the resiliency curve._

_Basically, she said that all of us are accustomed to normal, everyday life and its typical stresses and ups and downs. But there could be something that triggers us and knocks us (those with anxiety or PTSD for example) out of that comfort zone, either up or down. If we go up, we're hyperactive. That means we're anxious, panic-y, angry, or manic. If we go down, we're in a depressed state: numb, fatigued, disconnected, and exhausted._

_If a lot of things go wrong or if we're talking about a lot of bad things or if I've been thinking really negatively, I tend to go into both states, depending on the day. That's pretty much how I've lived my life for the last several years and now it makes sense. We're working on trying to find ways that can help me back into my "normal" state and we're gonna talk more about it next week._

* * *

It was the end of March when Cooper finally decided to leave us for good. He owned a business in Ohio, so he'd been flying back and forth between there and New York while I was going through the worst of my therapy – he'd spend two weeks with me and then a week at his own place in Kenton. And after six months, we both knew it was more than time for me to start handling things on my own.

"You don't need to love Kurt to _be_ somebody, okay?" he murmured in my ear, hugging me tightly in the terminal of the airport. "You matter just fine being Blaine. You need to love yourself first and start taking care of _you_. You're doing a great job so far, but I don't want you to lose all of that progress because I'm gone, alright? I'm only a phone or skype call away if you ever need anything."

"I know you are," I told him, squeezing him once more before I let go. There was so much I wanted and needed to say to him, but the words stuck in my throat. "Thank you for everything. You've done so much for me and I just – I love you, Coop."

"I love you too, B."

I didn't know how I was supposed to do this without him – I wasn't able to the first two times, with my parents and then during that first year in Lima without Kurt – but I was going to have to find strength within myself and figure it out. I was definitely on the path to getting better, although it had only been about six weeks so anything could set me off again. I was still very fragile and I was terrified of him going away and what would happen when he was wasn't right there next to me. He'd been with me during the thick of my treatment and had done his best to help me work through my PTSD, finally helping me understand after so many years that what my father did wasn't my fault. I was grateful that at least he'd been able to leave me with some sort of peace, and I hoped that by the next time I saw him, I would be almost fully recovered.

When Rachel stepped forward to embrace him, she also murmured a thank you in his ear and he whispered something inaudible back. She bobbed her head up and down in agreement, giving him a smile.

"I love you guys," he said. "Rachel, take care of him. Blaine, take care of her."

"I will," she replied. "Promise."

"Cross my heart."

And then he was gone, walking onto his flight and away from us. She put her arm around my waist, letting her head fall onto my shoulder.

We would always be there for each other.

* * *

**April, 2015**

"Do you believe in God?" I asked Charlotte, swirling around the water in my glass before looking in the bottom and setting it down. We were sitting at a small table, facing each other, in the almost-darkness of the closed café.

"Do you?"

"No," I said automatically, because I didn't.

"I don't think I do, either," she finally settled on, her bright green eyes looking at me.

"I think if there was a god, things like this wouldn't happen. Everyone would just be happy. There wouldn't be war, or poverty, or disease, or hunger, or discrimination. I wouldn't be struggling with PTSD, depression, and self harm. People always say that going through difficult times is necessary to become a stronger person, but that's bullshit. People dying of cancer is _necessary_? People being beat into oblivion is _necessary_? That's teaching us a lesson, making us stronger? Where's your God when that happens? People pray and pray and pray, but does he ever answer you? That person is still sick when you walk out of the church. I'm still being almost killed by my father. And if someone's able to survive the sickness or the abuse, _they_'re the ones that deserve all of the credit in the world, not a magical deity in the sky, because it's fucking hard, it's so fucking hard, but they did it. And Kurt and you and I and everybody else in this goddamned world with problems wouldn't go through what we go through if a god existed. And if he is there, that's pretty fucked up that he just lets all of this happen. I've almost died more times than I can count, either by other people or by myself. Will committed suicide. Your parents forced you into cutting. If God was real, then he would fix all of this shit, because the world is so fucking unfair sometimes and these things shouldn't be happening."

"That's a... that's a damn good point," she replied, taking a sip of her wine. "When I was younger, I always used to pray that all of the feelings I was having would go away. I was brought up to have God be the center of my life, you know, so I prayed because I thought he would make it better for me. But instead of answering me, he made me start falling in love with my best friend. And I was terrified out of my mind, because I couldn't lose her, but then she fell for me and that was the one thing I was never quite able to grasp. I just felt so... lucky. I've known her my entire life, since Kindergarten, and there was always a small part in the back of my brain that wondered if my parents might accept me if they knew it was her."

"Falling in love with your best friend," I mused. "What's that like?" I gave her a sad smile and she returned it.

"You know as much as I do that it never would've happened. Our parents just aren't meant to be parents. And they never knew Hen was gay anyways – we made it a point to never, ever talk about it at either of our houses – so it just made everything worse, actually. When they found out we were together, they started slipping in these nasty comments and wanted to send me to those camps and they just... _hated _me, and blamed me, and blamed _her. _That's when I stopped believing in God. Because the god I was raised to believe in never would have let that stuff happen to me. What she and I had, even then, it was never a sin and it will never _be _a sin. It's just beautiful."

"Love isn't wrong and I don't care who tells us it is because it isn't. There's so many reasons that I don't think I've ever truly, honestly believed that there was a god, but that's a big one. I went along with religion because I had to, but when I hit about thirteen and started cutting and having all of these problems, I gave up faith in a lot of things. So now I believe that God is just a distraction. I think it's there to give people a false hope that things can get better when they're at their lowest, or to give them a promise of salvation, or to give them something greater than themselves to believe in. People can't handle being ordinary. They can't just… _be_. There has to be a reason for human existence, so they make up a god, an incarnation of the things they wish could be true. They pray to him to feel special, like they're more than they actually are. But in reality, we're all so absolutely _normal_, and I just – I tried to believe in all of that and it didn't work. Nothing happened."

"For me entire life," she began, "I've been told that his word is law. My parents said I was a sinner because I was _choosing _to be this way, because it wasn't in his plan for all of us, because of a few sentences in a book that was written thousands of years ago. Most bibles were originally in languages not native to us, like Arabic or Hebrew, and things get lost in translation. So many people use their holy books as an excuse for their bigotry and oppression of people and other religions, and it's not right. God supposedly loves everyone, but he creates a couple million gay people and he lets his followers go around telling them they're going to hell? He lets people abuse their kids and force them into camps just because they like someone the same gender as them? I've never understood it."

"We're entitled to our feelings, Charlotte, right?" I asked her, searching her face. "Everyone always says that _I'm_ insensitive when I say God doesn't exist, but what about the people saying that God _is _real? Isn't that insensitive to me? To anyone that doesn't believe in god? If I'm constantly having religion shoved in my face, why the hell can't I say that I don't think any god exists? I'm not telling other people how to live their lives, I'm just stating how I want to live mine."

"Because it's not normal," Charlotte flatly. "It's not a belief that's common or ever portrayed in media. Sound familiar? Just like with sexuality. Just like with mental illness. None of these things are ever shown or talked about – and when they are, they're probably stereotypical misrepresentations of what it's actually like – so we're just all kinds of fucked up in the eyes of the world, aren't we?" she chuckled softly without much humor, shaking her head.

"It's infuriating. I'm fine, I'm _normal_. I'm not some kind of – some kind of _alien _just because I like penis." She burst into loud laughter. I shot her a look. "What? Am I wrong?"

"Well," she started, looking at me over the rim of her glass, "I don't understand your love of the male genitalia, but other than that, I suppose not, no."

"And _I_ don't understand how you can get all up in it down _there_, so I guess that makes us even." I paused for a long moment. "It's crazy though, isn't it?" I said quietly, flicking my eyes to hers. "That we're so similar?" She reached her hand across the table and grabbed mine, squeezing it.

"I think... I think I was meant to meet you. I know that sounds corny or whatever, but I really believe that. You've helped me just as much as I've helped you. Henley's a miracle worker, but everybody needs more than one person to lean on. You and I, we're like soul sisters," she giggled. "And Henley can be our fairy godmother or something."

"We could be a movie on Lifetime," I told her. "Young, scared teenager realizes she's gay; tries to ignore it. Prays to god to help her but ends up falling in love with her best friend. Other young, scared teenager knows he's gay; avoids thinking about it but goes to a dance with his friend anyways and gets jumped. Spends two weeks in the hospital with a brother and no parents; six weeks later, almost gets killed again by his father, spends more time in the hospital. Both teens self-harmed for years, tried to kill themselves, and were abused by their religiously-zealous parents. But one day, the boy meets the girl's girlfriend and the rest, as they say, is history."

She was silent for a moment, the reality of our situation falling around us and dampening the mood.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that –"

"No, no, it's okay. We don't have much if we can't laugh about it, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I murmured.

"No Kurt in your story?" she asked, taking a drink and setting her glass down.

"Wouldn't want to make it too depressing, right?" I told her. "I felt it would already be bad enough."

She let out a sigh, gripping my fingers.

"You know what I believe in?"

"What's that?"

"Love. I don't believe in a god, but I believe in love. I think that there are still good people out there with good hearts that can help us get through the tough times. I believe in Henley and in what we have, and that's all I really need. I believe that sometimes things happen for a reason, that people come into our lives with a purpose, but that we still have the power to ultimately make our own decisions. I believe that we can get back up after being hurt, that we can survive pain, because I did it. She did it. You're doing it right now. So that's what I believe."

"That's a… good thing to believe in," I replied shakily.

"What about you?" she asked me.

I wanted to believe in so many things – love, fate, the kindness of strangers. I wanted to believe in the power that I had to keep moving, to be stronger, and I wanted to believe in Kurt and in what we once had. I wanted to believe in something.

"I believe in my family – not the fucked up one I was born into, but the one I made. Cooper and Rachel and you, you've been so good to me over the last year but especially over these last few months. And I guess I can't really count Henley as family, but I'm so grateful for her, too. In a way, I guess I believe in love, too."

I finished my water and she finished her wine and then we just sat there, trading stories that we'd saved up for rainy days.

* * *

**April 25****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

_Dear Kurt, _

_ I've been thinking a lot about that night all those years ago, back in September when we sat on the porch swing. Then, I thought that we had a concrete future, an infinite one, and that as long as the stars were shining, our love was growing and we were gonna end up just fine._

_ And now the stars still twinkle in the night sky, but our love stayed frozen in time, nothing more than a hazy memory faded in a black and white Polaroid. Our stars have long been dead and I'm just sitting here waiting for the light to finally stop glowing so that I can tear my eyes away and move on. _

_ I've realized that people make promises in all forms. Sometimes they're clear cut and definite, sometimes they're hidden behind words and actions. They're enforced by law, by morality, by consciousness. When a mother looks down at the newborn baby in her arms, warm and pink, it goes without saying that she's promising to love that child and care for it as long as she lives. When someone signs their name in ink or holds their hand up in court, they're legally bound to whatever it is they're promising to do – to buy that house or to tell the truth about where they were that night. And when you said that you loved me farther than the stars, that was a promise to me, in my mind and in my soul, that you'd love me __forever__. You didn't need to write it on a contract or link your pinky in mine or even say the words out loud for them to have been concrete or definite to me; I heard it in highs and lows of your voice, felt it in your soft, caressing hands, saw it in the sincerity of your blue, blue eyes. _

_ When we were lying together on that swing and you were telling me about the stars, my heart said yes to that always with you, to a future with the dog and the white picket fence and the kids and the man that I loved standing beside me. You had me from the moment you stopped me on the staircase and you had me then and I thought you would have me now. Maybe you still do, I don't know._

_ But you can't have me, because I can't have you. _

_ I can't have you, Kurt. I know that now. I'm trying to accept it. It's hard to let it go when I imagine what things could have been like with us, when I picture the life I planned versus the life I have. I've tried to forget you and I've tried to hate you, but still, the most overwhelming emotion I feel, the one I've tried my hardest to ignore, is the love I have. I wonder if that's what true love is – unconditional, unwavering. Through everything, the tears and cutting and therapy and betrayal and loneliness, my love prevails, a small burning charcoal inside of me. But I'm no longer crippled by it, unable to move with its intensity and pain. I'm injured, deeply wounded, and I'll always have that little scar over my heart where your broken promises lay, but I think I can see the Other Side, and I hope it can be beautiful._

_ In therapy, I've learned a lot. I was dependant on you, so dependant that I didn't know how to function when you left. I was directly linked with you, my metaphorical oxygen and water, and it was like my brain associated you with safety, even when you were unstable. Maybe that was always the problem with us. We were never our own people when we were together; we were always a pair. We didn't just love each other or want each other. We __needed __each other, emotionally and physically, in a desperate and ferocious and animalistic way. That was never healthy and I never saw it._

_I'm learning to be independent now, an individual, and it's difficult. Every day without you is __hard__, and some days, the stitches rip open and turn into a bloody, stringy, fragile mess. But there are days where I feel strong, healing. Mending. Life is a challenge, but it was never meant to be easy._

* * *

**April 27****th****, 2015 – Therapy**

The very first thing I did at my next session was read Henley my letter. I'd never done that before, but I felt I had to that time because everything was different. The world was different. _I_ was different.

"I think – I think I'm beginning to realize," I began quietly once I was finished, "that I can be happy without him."

"How does saying those words feel?" she asked with a small smile.

"Liberating. It feels liberating. I can finally – I can move on. I can start to live my life again. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, or even next month. But it'll happen. Someday soon, I'll be happy. Completely, fully happy."

"It's incredible to hear you say that, Blaine," she told me. "Absolutely incredible. I'm so proud of how far you've come and of what you've accomplished in such a short amount of time."

"You know, I used to regret loving him. I hated myself for stopping on the stairs and for giving him my everything so that when he left, I had nothing. I spent so long just… regretting _us_," I admitted. "And I still don't know if I should be grateful for what we had or to wish that I'd never met him. Maybe I'll never know."

It had been nearly three years since he'd gone, but I'd spent the first immersed in heartbreak and the second in denial, so it wasn't until the third that I finally dived in full-force and tried to understand it. It was by far the toughest, and those past months had been some of the most grueling of my life because it was when everything came to a head – my father's actions, Kurt's leaving, and all of the emotional baggage that had been piling up since I was thirteen. But slowly, I was sorting through my tangled mess and the knots in my rope were beginning to straightening out.

"Let me ask you this," she called out as I was almost through the door. "Is it better to have loved and to have lost or to not have loved at all?"

I paused, taking in a breath as I rested my fingers on the door handle. I smiled faintly, shaking my head. It was then that I knew. "Loved," I told her. "It's better to have loved."

From then on, I never regretted loving Kurt.

* * *

As soon as I got home, I headed to my bedroom. I pulled open the top drawer of my dresser and ruffled around until I found a letter. It was the same one that Henley made me write all those months ago, about my wishes and hopes for therapy. It was still sealed, so I slipped my thumb under the top flap and opened it. My eyes drifted over my scrawled handwriting, messy and shaky.

_ I want to be alive_.

I crossed it out, writing underneath it.

_ I want to be happy. I want to move on. _

My wishes had changed, and so had I.

* * *

**May 15****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

_Today I realized something._

_I am not untouchable. I am just a person, a boy, who wants to make his life mean something._

_Maybe this is what I've needed to see all along. As humans, we aren't safe from pain or hurting or failure. We know this, so why do we react the way we do to situations that do just that – hurt us and cause us pain and make us fail? Again, it's because we're __human__. And we will get hurt, and we will be angry, and sad, and sometimes we will sit and marvel at the cruelty of the world and wonder why it tries so hard to knock us down._

_But then we will wake up the next day and start all over._

_I am not untouchable. The people around me are not untouchable. The universe it not untouchable. We all just want to live our lives and change the world and come out on the other side alright._

_So that's what I have to do._

* * *

**May, 2015**

"Rachel, can you please stop pacing? You're distracting me."

"Blaine, you're sitting at a piano," she deadpanned, giving me a look. "I don't think anything could interrupt you."

I shot her a playful glare, continuing to scribble away in my notebook.

"What are you even doing, anyway?" she asked, coming to sit on the bench next to me. She put her chin on my shoulder, glancing at the pages filled with my sloppy-quick handwriting.

"Writing. And if you love me, then you will find some way to occupy yourself until I'm finished working."

"I'm just nervous," she said. "Thank you very much for your concern, _B_."

"First of all, if this revival rumor is true, you're gonna get the part, Rach," I told her with a chuckle, rolling my eyes. "You know that as much as I do. Second, I feel like writing so that's what I'm going to do."

"It's _Fanny Brice_. I've wanted to play her ever since I was four! I have a chance at being on _Broadway_, Blaine. Broadway! This is beyond huge."

"This is just a _rumor_. It's in the works – it could take years to actually get started."

"Dream crusher," she muttered. "And it's been a rumor for _months_, it's just finally starting to gain more status now."

"We should go out tonight. Call Charlotte, see if she wants go to dinner later," I said distractedly with a wave of my hand, paying no attention to the antics I was long accustomed to at that point.

"I wish Henley would come out with us."

"She just has a strict rule about us not seeing each other outside of therapy. Which I understand, it's really unprofessional and I don't know, weird, I guess. Maybe when she's not my therapist she'll be more open to the idea. Plus, if we're close to Charlotte, it's not like she can avoid hanging out with us forever."

"Yeah," she sighed, laying her head on my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Right now, yeah I am," I said with a small smile.

_One step at a time_, I reminded myself.

* * *

**August 15****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

_Kurt,_

_ You left over three years ago. It's been a tough three years, and you've now been gone longer than we were together. But I'll be okay. _

_ I'm trying, and I'll be okay._

* * *

**August 23****rd****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

"Say Something" by Blaine Anderson

_Say something, I'm giving up on you  
I'll be the one, if you want me to  
Anywhere I would've followed you  
Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_And I am feeling so small  
It was over my head  
I know nothing at all_

_And I will stumble &amp; fall  
I'm still learning to love  
Just starting to crawl_

_Say something, I'm giving up on you  
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you  
Anywhere I would've followed you  
Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_And I will swallow my pride  
You're the one that I love  
And I'm saying goodbye_

_Say something, I'm giving up on you  
And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you  
And anywhere I would've followed you (Ooh-oh)  
Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_Say something, I'm giving up on you  
Say something_

* * *

**October, 2015 **

"I thought that instead of writing it down, this time I'd just… tell it to you," I said, looking out into the dark night sky. There weren't many stars, because it was the city and the pollution made it nearly impossible, but I was able to imagine what they would look like if they were there. Rachel was out, so it was just me and all of the space from my apartment to the moon. It was eerily quiet, something very unusual for this city. I knew the noise was there – the cars and the people and the loud, thumping music – but in my head, it faded away into nothing more than a dimmed, muted sound.

"I don't know why I'm doing this, to be honest," I began, with a small sigh. "I'm usually okay with writing these letters to you. But I think tonight I just needed to talk to you. It's been awhile since I've been out here and counted all the constellations, wondering if you're in there somewhere. I'm not sure I believe that anymore, anyways. I know you loved me at one point, and I've accepted it because Henley made me realize that you probably had so much stuff going on in your head when you decided to leave. And I've sat here and screamed and yelled and I've been so angry for so long because of what you did. But I just – I can't do it anymore. I can't be angry. It's exhausting trying to hate you and hold onto that anger when all I want to do is let it go. So I've decided to not be angry anymore. I forgive you, Kurt. And I'm… I'm sorry. That I didn't realize sooner, or try and help you more. I know I did everything I could, but it wasn't enough and I'm sorry. I used to think that it was my fault that you left because I would tell myself that I didn't do anything to stop it, but that's not true. I never would've imagined that you'd leave like that, and I know now that I can't blame myself, and I don't. I can't blame you either, and I know that things just… turned out the way they did. We weren't meant to be, and I guess that's okay. I've come to terms with that, and Henley says that I'll probably be able to get off my depression meds soon, so I'd say they're working." I paused, listening to the faint honks and the wind blowing in the distance.

"You know, I used to think that everyone had a soul mate. I thought that we were all paired off and that once we found _our_ person, we could stop looking because that was it, you know? The search was over. I thought you were mine, but I don't think I believe that now, either. If you were my soul mate, you wouldn't have left. So maybe they don't exist, or maybe not everyone has one. Who knows, I could have two soul mates. I don't know, I guess I'll have to wait and see. But I do know that you loved me, even when you decided to leave and even if we weren't supposed to spend forever together. Years ago, Rachel told me that you looked at me like I was the sun and the moon, but I said that wasn't enough because you were supposed to look at me like the _stars_. But the sun _is _a star, it's just different from all the rest. So you loved me, Kurt, and I'm sorry I doubted that."

I sucked in a quiet breath, leaning on the window frame. I put my chin on the palm of my hand, smiling faintly.

"There are all these rumors about a Funny Girl revival, and if it's true, there's no way Rach won't get Fanny. She's doing so wonderfully here, she was _made_ to be in New York, and she's gonna be a big star one day, just wait. I wish you'd be here to see it, but I know that in a year, or two, or five, you'll be walking down the street of whatever city you're in, and you'll see a magazine, or a billboard, and it'll have her face on it. And you'll stop and think, 'she did it.' You'll smile to yourself, and you'll keep walking, continuing towards your destination, filled with memories of her laughter and our late night musical marathons. I remember this one time, where we were watching Wicked, and even though Rachel was sick like a dog, she insisted on singing along with every song. You told her to stop because it could damage her voice, but she looked you dead in the face and said no. She marched onto her basement stage, grabbed the mic, and sang the entire version of Defying Gravity from start to finish. Even though it was awful – her voice was cracking and she couldn't hold a note to save her life – I remember all of us laughing together, rolling on the floor and clutching our stomachs." I stopped, letting out a chuckle as I recalled that night. Once I was done, I continued, lips curved into a smile. "We hadn't laughed that hard in so long, but that night we did. And it's such a silly memory, but it's one of my favorites and I'll cherish it forever. Because even if you can't be here with us now, I'll always have all of the moments that you_ were_ there for."

I cleared my throat, adjusting my elbows on the window sill. I felt the warm night air on my face, the breeze blowing softly.

"I've been in therapy for almost a year and a half, since last July. It's crazy, absolutely crazy. No wonder you didn't wanna go. But I needed it. I still kinda do, even if I think I don't. And it's okay to admit that, because I had to get help. Without it, who knows where I'd be. I wouldn't have met Henley, that's for sure, and she's just – she's so amazing, Kurt. She's such a wonderful person and I wish you'd have gotten the chance to meet her. She's so passionate about the work she does and she's the proof I needed that it's possible to live with pain. She's been through so much, but she's still here. And Charlotte is probably the cutest, loveliest person I've ever seen. She just _gets_ me, because she _is_ me, really. Her life – it's been really hard, just like mine, but now she's so bubbly and bright and she doesn't have an ounce of bad in her. She's helped me so much, and she's one of my closest friends here, besides Rachel. She's got the greenest eyes and the reddest hair that you've ever seen, but it works for her.

"And I'm in my third year of college, you know? I went into music, just like you said I should. I work at a children's center so I get to help them discover their passion for music, and I work at Charlotte's coffee shop a few times a week, so I get to show off all of the songs I wrote about you. Everybody loves me there, but they should really be giving you the credit. I wouldn't be as good as I am today if I wasn't given a chance to write about you. You move me, Kurt. Even today, you inspire me. You always have.

"'_It is in the destiny of the stars to collapse_,'" I recited softly after a few minutes of silence. "I heard that once. And it's true; the universe is nothing but a black hole that creates and destroys. It creates things just to destroy them, and then it destroys those things to be able to create new things. Maybe that's what happened with us, you know? We were made specifically to be destroyed and turned into something new. So that's what I think. I believe that we were something special, something extraordinary. We're a part of a universe that cares so little for people as individuals, for love, and for moments, because all it wants is to destroy and create. But as long as I have our memories, it can never destroy _us. _I can't just pretend like we never existed, Kurt, because you've changed me in irreversible ways. You saved my life once, then you almost ended it. You're a part of who I am today, and you were such a huge part of my story for so long. We may not be together, but I'm so thankful that I got to have you in my life, no matter the amount of time. And maybe I'll never know why you left, but maybe it wasn't meant for me to know," I said. "So I'm going to give you what you never gave me."

I glanced up as I remembered something Kurt had said to me all those years ago.

_ Whenever you miss me, or anytime you're feeling sad, I want you to come outside and find that star, okay? It's the North Star. And every time you see it, I want you to know that I love you and that I miss you too. And that wherever I am, I'm thinking of you, always._

And maybe it was ironic that I wouldn't be able to see that bright star. Maybe it meant that it was time to move on. His words weren't a reality, but a memory – a forgotten promise, part of a love that was once one for the ages. And that was okay; we both said things in the past that don't hold truth today. I wouldn't be looking up at the night sky anymore when I was sad, because I knew that he wasn't there and neither was his love. I would look up at it when I wanted to remember the good times that I had with the person I used to love, or when I needed some peace, or when I needed to remember that this was not the end – because the universe is so inexplicably immense, because what I have now can't be all that I'll ever have. I know that there's more waiting for me somewhere, opportunities to be had, dreams to be followed, people to meet. I just had to find it.

"Goodbye, Kurt."

* * *

**November 18****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

"Beam Me Up" by Blaine Anderson

_There's a whole other conversation going on,  
In a parallel universe_

_Where nothin' breaks and nothin' hurts_

_There's a waltz playin' frozen in time,_

_Blades of grass on tiny bare feet_

_I look at you and you're lookin' at me_

_Could you beam me up?  
Give me a minute  
I don't know what I'd say in it  
I'd probably just stare,  
Happy just to be there holdin' your face_

_Beam me up  
Let me be lighter  
I'm tired of being a fighter  
I think a minute's enough  
Just beam me up_

_Saw a blackbird soarin' in the sky  
Barely a breath, I caught one last sight  
Tell me that was you sayin' goodbye_

_There are times I feel the shiverin' cold  
It only happens when I'm on my own  
That's how you tell me I'm not alone_

_Could you beam me up  
Give me a minute  
I don't know what I'd say in it  
I'd probably just stare  
Happy just to be there holdin' your face_

_In my head I see your baby blues  
I hear your voice and I  
I break in two and now there's  
One of me with you_

_So when I need you can I send you a sign  
I'll burn a candle and turn off the lights  
I'll pick a star and watch you shine_

_Could you beam me up?_

* * *

**November 29****th****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal **

_A few weeks ago, Henley said I didn't need to come weekly anymore. She suggested twice a month, and I agreed. Going is just a formality at this point. It's a day where I can sit and vent about the stresses of my life, or when I get to bond with someone that's helped me through so much and that's been there for me through thick and thin, even when I screamed or cried or threw things._

_I'm not angry now, about you or even about my father. I've accepted that I'm not at fault for either of your actions, and I want to focus on the good in my life. I have Rachel and Cooper, and I have Henley and Charlotte, and that's all I really need. I have four wonderful people in my life that were willing to drop everything to help me get better, and there's nothing that I can ever do to repay them._

_And I think I gave you too much credit for my depression. After working through everything, I think one of the biggest reasons that it's been so hard for me is because I felt __abandoned__. Just like I did with my father. Maybe I'll never get completely to the bottom of it, but I feel like he played a much bigger role in my breakdown than I wanted to admit. I wanted to believe that I loved you enough to spend three years missing you, and I wanted to believe that it was possible for me to be stronger than to let my father do this to me, but if he hadn't done what he did to me, I don't think I would have been so crippled by you leaving. And in a way, I felt guilty for trying to move on. You helped me so much, even if you didn't realize it, and I thought it was… wrong, somehow, to forget you. But I'm not forgetting you, I'm just tucking you away where the memories of you can be safe and away from the gunpowder that sometimes still lines my brain._

_I never really dealt with what happened, I just packed up and got out of that house, and it's why I have PTSD. But I'm okay. I got help, and I'm working through it, and I'm okay._

* * *

**December 22****nd****, 2015 – Blaine's Journal**

_Dear Kurt,_

_ I don't feel stuck anymore._

_ I got my taste of forever, and it doesn't have to last a long time in reality for it to last eternally in my memories. You know, maybe forever is just one person. Perhaps it's not this great and immeasurable concept of time that everybody sees it as. Forever has to end at some point, ours ended when you walked out the door and away from me. I used to think that my forever was you, but maybe it wasn't. It couldn't have been. Things change, and life happens, and you suddenly find something that was once forever to you is now nothing more than a cloudy memory in your past._

_ Henley told me that I was in love with the __idea__ of you, and I think that as time passed by, that became true. It's been three and a half years, and wherever you are, you're a completely different person now. You've changed and I have too; that's what time does to people. I know that you aren't the same person that I fell in love with anymore, nor am I the hazel-eyed boy that saved you on the Dalton Academy staircase. I was in love with our memories, of what we had once been, and I have to let all of that go. She said that I had to live for __me__, not for other people and not for the past. So that's what I'm going to do._

_ I was watching The Notebook the other day, and I thought of you – of us and the night that we laid in the grass and recited quotes to each other. I have another one, the full version, that wasn't of complete use to me at the time._

_ "I'm not bitter anymore," Noah said, "because I know that what we had was real. And if in some distant place in the future we see each other in our new lives, I'll smile at you with joy and remember how we spent the summer beneath the trees, learning from each other and growing in love. The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that's what you've given me. That's what I hope to give to you forever. I love you."_

_ It's true, it's all true._

_ A bird isn't meant to be caged. You have to let it go free and trust that it will come back to you, and if it doesn't, then maybe it wasn't yours to begin with. I know that once, you were my beautiful, big-winged bird that loved to spend his days dreaming about what was out in the world. And then that's where you went, and you weren't mine to call anymore. I realize now that I couldn't make you stay with me, because maybe that's not where you were meant to be. You had to fly, and your wings took you away from us, and it's okay._

_ It's okay._

* * *

**January 19****th****, 2016 – Blaine's Journal**

"_And it has been  
one hell  
of a year.  
I have worn  
the seasons  
under my sleeves,  
on my thighs,  
running down my cheeks.  
This is what  
surviving  
looks like, my dear." _

_\- Michelle K._

* * *

**January 26****th****, 2016 **

"It's been a little while," Henley said, glancing at me as I walked through the door to her office. "You only come once every two weeks, if that."

"You finally had dinner with Charotte and Rach and me two nights ago," I told her, laughing as I sat. "I just saw you."

"But this is different. And when you're not my patient anymore, maybe we can have dinner again, but for now, this is fine."

"Maybe it is different," I replied. "But not bad different."

She hummed in agreement, and then asked me how I felt, like she always did. She flipped her folder shut, adjusting herself in her chair. She put her chin in her hands, smiling at me, because she knew the answer.

"I feel good."

She looked at me, her smile growing, and said, "I know you do, Blaine. I know you do."

"It's been a hard three and a half years," I said. "But I got through it." _I made it to the Other Side and I lived to tell about it._

* * *

I ended my therapy shortly after that, in early 2016, after twenty months. It wasn't easy, but after a long, excruciating road, things were finally beginning to fall into place and I became happier than I'd ever been. I knew I would always have the scars of my past, both physical and emotional, but they made me into the person I'd become and I was okay with that.

* * *

In August 2016, after months of anticipation and rumors about the revival of Funny Girl, it was confirmed that the show would indeed be taking a second run. Immediately, Rachel started doing everything she could to prepare for the audition, and when she went in to see the director, she nailed it. And then in October, she finally got the news – Fanny Brice was hers.

She and the entire cast spent close to four months practicing and opened the show in late January 2017. It ran off Broadway for about eight months before it moved to Broadway after getting raving reviews from critics – because no one expected it to do as well as it did, not without Barbra, of course. But it did fantastically well and the theater world was abuzz with this new Rachel Berry and just exactly where she'd been hiding. She had magazines and newspapers after her for interviews since the show started, but come September, when it found its home on 48th street, her fame only began to grow.

And incidentally, when the New York Times interviewed her for the second time, right after the official Broadway opening, it happened to be someone she already knew.

"I'd been seeing him for months down at the coffee shop," she explained. "Every morning before rehearsal I'd go and get my coffee, you know, and I always saw him sitting in the back, in the exact same chair every time. For like two months, I noticed him while I was in line, eating his bagel or drinking his coffee or whatever, typing away at his computer like an Olympic champ."

"Isn't that just a little creepy?" I asked with a barely contained smile. Of course she would pay attention to something like that. "I mean, just staring at someone?"

"I'm telling you, Blaine. It was weird. And being the kind of outgoing person I am, I finally went up to him one day and struck up a conversation."

"You didn't."

"Oh, I did. He was cute, obviously driven, we have the same taste in coffee…" she trailed off, moving her hands in the air. "Anyways, he told me he was the Events writer for the New York Times, so I told him he should come to the first show and write about it."

"Only you wouldn't waste an opportunity for shameless self promotion, Rachel Berry," I laughed, shaking my head.

"Well I was trying to flirt but he clearly got the message because he told me he had a boyfriend –"

"You have two gay dads and your best friend slash brother is a gay man, how would you not pick up on that?"

"I don't know!" she exclaimed. "That's not the point. Okay, so I dropped the whole thing and then we just started talking about everything and he's like, ridiculously nice. And well-spoken. And so polite. Did I mention drop dead gorgeous? I mean, if he didn't have a boyfriend, I'd insist that he ask you out."

"Is there a moral to this story, Rach?" I asked her, wondering why on earth she was telling me about a writer for a newspaper. "You're rambling."

"Yes, _actually_, let me finish," she told me, giving me a look. "We've been talking in the mornings when we get our coffee, right? And then we became friends and he came to the off-Broadway opening to do the article on the show, blah blah blah, you know that. But he showed up last night to write about _me, _Blaine, not just the show. The New York Times wants to run an article on the actress behind Fanny!"

"Oh my god, that's amazing!" She launched herself at me, squealing, so I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a hug.

"And you know, because he's the one doing the story, it's bound to be good. So I don't have to worry about whether or not they'll be hard on me or dig up dirt or anything like that, which means that we can fully celebrate! Thank you, Sebastian Smythe."

"Sounds pretentious."

"Oh, you have no idea. He knows he's good so he owns it. It's not a bad thing and I can't say that I blame him," she responded. "His boyfriend must be a lucky guy. I _wish_ I could get someone like that. But you've _got_ to meet him. I think you two would be good friends."

* * *

Between juggling her last year in school and the play (she'd quit her job after she got the role), Rachel was rarely home. I was still pretty busy myself, but it gave me the time I needed to get re-acquainted with who I was, post-therapy, post-antidepressants, post-_Kurt_. Now that I was just Blaine, I had to figure out who that was and where he was headed.

I was someone who loved his friends like they were his family, so I made sure that Henley, Charlotte, Rachel and I all stayed close after therapy. I was someone who watched TV and read books and ran for pleasure, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I was someone who enjoyed my time in school and finally realized what being a college student in New York was about: freedom and fun. I was someone who lived for music, so I spent my days strumming away at my guitar, playing the piano, and composing song after song just because I could. I was someone who was finally able to breathe again.

After Rachel got her news, Cooper decided to move up to New York. He wanted to expand his business anyways, so he'd spent the year previous lining everything up and finding someone else to run the office in Ohio. Once he set up the New York office, he was living just three blocks away from me. I was long better by the time he came, so it was nice having a normal relationship with my brother – something that we'd never had before. In Ohio, we were dealing with my father and legal papers and Kurt leaving. And then when he came to visit me, it was all about my depression and therapy, which meant that there was never any room for anything else. I spent weeks showing him around the city, and after that, it was as if nothing had ever been wrong. The only sign that I'd ever been sick were the fading scars on my arms.

There were a few boys that I went on a couple of dates with, but nothing serious ever came of it. I never did anything more than kiss them, because I knew that I couldn't give myself to someone else emotionally and physically without truly meaning it. When I had gone through the thick of my depression, all sex did was make my situations and feelings towards myself worse, and at the end of the day, I wasn't ready to commit to them. I knew that getting involved would only lead to messy breakup's before we even got a chance to really begin, so it never went farther than a few weeks. I needed to focus on myself and my passion for music, and living the single life didn't seem like such a bad idea to me.

I graduated in May of 2017 with a Bachelors in Music Performance, and after that, I wanted to go after my dreams, so I did. Instead of going to school for two more years like I'd originally planned, I poured every ounce of my energy into my singing career, which eventually led to me making the tough decision of quitting my job as a music counselor at the Manhattan Children's Center. I had worked there for almost four years, so it was difficult saying goodbye to it, but I knew that it was something I had to do in order to brave the tough New York crowds and make a name for myself. There were millions of people living in that city, and I was at the age in my life where I had to start making choices that affected my life _after _school. When I left my work, it became very evident that _job_ and _career_ were very different things. Working with the kids was a job – one that I enjoyed and was honored to do – but it wasn't my _career_. My love was for music in its barest form, for the feeling of a pen scribbling away on a blank piece of paper, for the calluses on my fingertips, for giving everything I had on a stage in front of whoever was willing to listen. I was born not to be a singer or a vocalist, but a _performer_. And while helping children discover their love for the arts was allowing me to be able to sing music and play instruments, it would do nothing for me in the long run on the path for what I really wanted to be.

Throughout the rest of 2017 and 2018, I set out to record a short album as a way to get my voice known – I had to start somewhere and I figured that was my opportunity. I'd saved up some money so I would be able to rent out a small studio to produce it professionally, and Cooper had insisted for fronting the rest for anything else I needed. Because my best work came from my experiences with Kurt, I used the songs I'd written about us and named the album _To Build A Home_. I promoted it wherever I could, put it online, and sang it on an endless loop at the café, hoping that the right person would come along and find interest in it. Then finally, in November, my hard work paid off. Someone had heard me playing the tracks in Charlotte's coffee shop and said that he wanted to set up a meeting with me. When I met with him to discuss the legalities of it all, he said he wanted to represent me, and I accepted his deal. Just like that, my dream of becoming a recording artist was on its way to being fulfilled.

Life couldn't have gotten any better.

* * *

**A/N: So Blaine is all better – I told y'all, you just had to be patient ;). Leave me a comment and let me know what you think! **

**Also, this is the video where I learned about the resiliency curve, for anyone who's interested. youtube watch?v=ny6KQ1_F-pI (skip to 8:53)**

**This is the chart of the curve: ****elissaslaterisaqueen . tumblr post/122179398282**

**Finally, this is the lovely, lovely drawing my editor did for Henley and Charlotte ages ago, when they were just barely characters: s****parklevamp . deviantart art/Hen-And-Char-391801802?ga_submit_new=10%253A1376006829**


	15. Chapter 13

**A/N: Read the warnings and continue at your own risk and comfort level.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: EXPLICIT MENTIONS AND DESCRIPTIONS OF RAPE. References to domestic violence, emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, and anorexia/bulimia.**

**Note: Once again, I agree with absolutely none of the events in this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Lost the Battle, Lost the War**

_(Kurt, October 2016 – December 2017)_

* * *

"_**But even when I stop crying, even when we fall asleep and I'm nestled in his arms, this will leave another scar. No one will see it. No one will know. But it will be there. And eventually all of the scars will have scars, and that's all I'll be —one big scar of a love gone wrong."**__** – **_**Amanda Grace, ****But I Love Him**

* * *

My breaking point came on a humid October night in the fall of 2016.

Sebastian and I had been together for about two and a half years at that point, but we were already well on the way to unraveling when the events of this night unfolded. We were a poorly strung together mess, fastened only by frayed pieces worn thin by too much time and too many broken promises.

What he did would change me – and the path we were on – forever, and I knew I would never be the same. When the monster inside of him came out from his hiding spot behind his bones and became him, I was finally able to see it clearly. For the first time, I couldn't let my love or my denial excuse his actions. I couldn't sit around waiting for him to change and be good to me, because that was never going to happen. I knew what was happening and where we were headed; I wasn't naïve. And if I knew one thing about relationships, it's that some were meant to be, were worth fighting for, and some… weren't. It's as simple as that.

But he knew he didn't have to fight for me. He already had me.

* * *

I was cooking dinner when I heard the front door slam shut, causing me to jump. My spoon fell into the pot and I cursed under my breath as I tried to fish it out. Before I was able to retrieve it, a pair of arms wrapped around me, pushing me into the stove. I could feel the full length of Sebastian's front on my back, from his head all the way down to his legs.

"Hi to you too?" I laughed, not yet realizing what was about to come.

"What're you making?" he asked, completely disregarding me.

"Oh, um, chicken parmesan, stuffed tortellini, and the salad is over there on – "

"I sure hope you don't plan on eating all of that," he interrupted, words running together thickly. "You really shouldn't."

I stayed quiet, still trapped by his body, and my hand flexed on the counter. He was drunk.

"What, do you not have anything to say?" His fingers gripped the top of my arm and I could feel his hot breath on my neck.

"No, I –"

"Stop talking." He began kissing down my neck, pulling me flush against him. He started to fumble with the buttons on my vest, and when he undid all of them and took it off my shoulders, I used that opportunity to push him away.

"What are you doing?" My heart was beating through my chest, a nervousness settling deep in my stomach. I wasn't in the mood to indulge him, not like this, not now. I was still sore from the night before and I knew I wouldn't have been able to handle another round – physically or mentally.

"Trying to fuck you," he said bluntly, stepping forward and setting his hands on my waist. "Don't you want to, Kurt? I know you want me." I could now smell the alcohol on him and wondered how I hadn't known the second he'd walked in the door. He wasn't just drunk – he was way past that – and when he was _this_ intoxicated, he tended to get angry quicker than normal. I didn't know what to do, because I only had two options and neither appealed to me. I either wouldn't let him sleep with me, which would result in him screaming at me and then more pain the next time, or I let him have what he wanted.

"Sebastian, you're drunk." I went for the obvious, hoping to distract him and buy myself some time.

"Shh, I'm not drunk." His fingers slid along the top of my pants, and then he swiftly undid my belt, sending shivers down my spine. "I am, however, very horny and you're here, so you're going to have to do."

I felt a stinging behind my eyes at his words. _He's not himself_, my thoughts reminded me. _He doesn't know what he's saying._

"But dinner—"

"I don't give a damn about anything except for your ass right now. Don't be a prude."

"We had sex last night," I said, closing my eyes and swallowing when I felt him tugging my shirt out of my pants.

"So? Left you good and sore, didn't I?"

"I don't think I could—"

"Makes it all the more fun," he mumbled, pulling my zipper down.

"Sebastian, stop." I attempted to shove him away futilely. My blood was pounding in my veins and rushing in my ears as he spun me around, pinning me to the stove.

"You," he began, trailing his thumb over my lips, "should really learn to be quiet." He jerked his hips forward and I could feel him against me through his jeans. He held my arms against my stomach as he kissed the side of my jaw, progressively moving lower. I was struggling against him, trying to get free, and when I nearly succeeded, he shoved me further against the oven, causing my hand to fly onto the hot pot on the burner. I cried out, yanking it away, but he ignored me and continued.

"Sebastian, my hand," I said through clenched teeth as I tried to keep my tears at bay. It was burning and beginning to bubble, the giant gash already beginning to mark my skin.

"It'll be fine."

Suddenly, two hands were pressed tightly against my face. His greedy lips were forceful as he kissed my mouth, spinning me and walking us back towards a wall. His knee spread my legs apart and he removed his hands to finish tugging my shirt out of my pants.

"Stop," I repeated, wrestling against his grip. "I don't want to. Stop."

"You'll feel better once I'm inside of you," he whispered in my ear, and that's when I began to cry.

"Stop, please stop."

He paid no attention to my pleas, ripping the shirt off my shoulders and causing some of the buttons to scatter across the floor. His hands held my jaw in place as he kissed me roughly, pinning my hips to the wall. At that point, I was wriggling, turning my head away in attempts to get him to stop kissing me. He growled as he yanked my face back to him, fingers gripping the hollow in my cheeks so hard that I cried out in pain.

"You'll do what I tell you to, understand? You're mine."

I was terrified because this wasn't who he was. This wasn't the man I loved.

He released his hold on me, shoving me away so that I stumbled backwards with wide eyes and red cheeks from where his fingers had been. I was breathing hard as fear swirled around my head and tightened my chest. This had never happened before; he'd never been this forceful or demanding, this cruel.

I thought it was over when Sebastian had turned around, but then I heard the sound of his buckle and zipper being undone and realized that this was just the beginning. My heart dropped into my stomach and I immediately started to panic. My hand continued to throb, the tears silently making their way down my cheeks.

He faced me again, walking towards me and grabbing my wrist. He forced my body to the ground, shoving his pants and boxers down his legs. I turned away, crying and pleading with him to stop, but he only gripped my cheeks harder, twisting my neck in his direction.

"Do it," he said in a cold tone, jerking his hips forward.

I shook my head, chest heaving with sobs, and when his cock touched my lips, I clamped them shut tightly. I turned to the side, but Sebastian wretched me around using my hair, and I cried out. He shoved himself into my open mouth, nearly choking me. I felt wetness and I gagged, bending to get away and struggling to get out of his grasp.

"Stop! I don't wa– Stop!" I screamed, sobbing. He had me pinned to the floor with his knees and he was holding my arms above my head with his hands. His finger dug into my burn, making me cry harder. "Stop, please stop, I don't wann– "

_ Smack._

"Don't you dare ever, _ever_ say no to me again."

And with that, he got up and left me on the floor, shaking and sick with fear as I began to hyperventilate.

I heard groaning coming from the next room.

* * *

But that wasn't the first time he'd gotten intentionally physical with me, not by a long shot. That was just the first time it was blatantly, deliberately obvious.

About a month prior to that, we were in a heated argument about my job. Sebastian was telling me that I didn't need to work, that he had more than enough to sustain the both of us, but I kept repeating over and over again that I _wanted_ to be at Vogue. I was so close to achieving something that I'd wanted for so long, I'd said, and for years I even wondered if I would be able to even be around to have a job, so it meant a great deal to me. Even though I was with Sebastian, I liked to maintain as much independence as I could without hurting our relationship, which, in the beginning, had been fine. He'd understood that having a boyfriend again was extremely hard for me after what I'd been through and gave me as much space as I asked for. Until, of course, he didn't.

He hadn't ever really brought up my job before, at least not in a negative light, and because was the one who helped me get it, it made sense in my mind that he supported me. But then he came home one day when I was stressed about a deadline and he just slowly started dropping the hint that it would be okay if I quit. I laughed it off and told him that I surely wouldn't do that (I loved it even when it was demanding), but he kept at it and it quickly turned into a yelling match – which shocked me because I rarely challenged him when we fought. He continued to get closer to me as it progressed, and the angrier he got, the more cautious I was of the look in his eyes. And then in the span of time it took me to tell him that maybe he should cool down, his hand was on my chest and I was on the ground, staring up at him and terrified.

Starting around a year and a half after we started dating, he'd gotten rougher with me as he grew more possessive. Always gripping my hand, keeping his fingers at my back, constantly touching some part of me. I noticed it, but it hadn't seemed controlling or calculated right away. And when I realized that that's exactly what it was, it was too late to do anything about it. I never thought it would turn physical. But that night it had and once we hit that point, we never went back.

* * *

Following what happened the night he came home drunk, I decided that I just couldn't take it anymore. A big part of me still loved him, even after everything he had done to me, but I knew I had to leave. I couldn't put myself through something like that again, so when he came home the next night, I had a bag packed and I was waiting for him on the couch.

"Babe?"

I sucked in a breath when I heard Sebastian's voice followed by the sound of keys hitting the table. I counted his footsteps into the room, trying to calm my heart rate as I went over everything I wanted to say in to him my head.

"What's going on?" he asked slowly, eyeing the suitcase.

"I can't do this anymore," I said in a rushed, broken cry, shaking my head as tears began to slide down my face. I reached my hand up to wipe them away.

"Can't do what? Us?" His voice, angry and sharp, made guilt churn in my stomach.

"You're different," I began, sniffling. "You're meaner. You're so… controlling and possessive, and you expect so much out of me and I'm still never enough. You get jealous when there isn't a reason. You're always upset with me even though I did all of the things you asked, and you always want to have sex—"

"Is this about last night? Because I was drunk—"

"Of course it's about last night!" I yelled, standing up. "Bullshit! You knew what you were doing the whole time, it doesn't matter if you were drunk! It doesn't just give you a free pass, Sebastian!"

"Come on, Kurt," he protested, reaching out to grab my arms that were crossed tightly over my chest. "You know that's not who I am."

"Don't touch me," I said, recoiling and doing my best to sound strong through my tears.

"Baby, you know I would never do something like that to you on purpose."

I held my bandaged hand in the air. "Do you see this? You burned me. And then you – you kept going when I asked you to stop, and –"

"I didn't know you burned yourself," he told me in a concerned voice, acting as if he cared. I ignored it, telling myself that it was just another piece to his game.

"I didn't. _You_ did."

"Don't pin this on me because you're upset. Let's talk about it."

"You want to talk?" I asked harshly, throwing my arms out. "Fine. You still try and act like we're a normal couple, when you and I _both_ know that that isn't the case. You'll do something and then you'll come and tell me how _sorry_ you are, how you _didn't mean it_, and I always forgive you. You get so angry and you go from zero to sixty in five seconds! And then last night—"

"I _am_ sorry. Fuck, you know that, Kurt." He ran a hand through his hair and then over his face. "I'm so –"

"You tried to rape me!" I suddenly screamed as hot, slick tears coursed down my face. My blood pounded heavily in my ears as the beat of my heart echoed in the unbearable silence of the room. I'd never admitted it out loud before because I'd never wanted to believe it, but there was no taking it back after I'd let it slip. He stared at me with an unreadable expression and parted lips. For a long while, that's all we did: stare at each other, minds reeling with the words I'd just admitted, letting the sound of our lungs working too hard to keep us oxygenated fill the space around our bodies. The fear started to creep its way into the lobes of my brain and I shoved it deep inside me, down into a place that even Sebastian could not reach. I needed to be brave. "You tried to rape me," I repeated, spacing out each word. "And then you hit me when I said no. And you're lying about it."

"I wasn't trying to rape you," Sebastian said quickly, brushing off the statement. "That's ridiculous. Nothing happened."

"I have bruises all over my body from your fingers! I have a burn on my hand! You forced yourself on me and pinned me to the ground and you didn't stop when I told you to!"

"I didn't mean it, Kurt, I swear," he told me, eyes glassy and pleading. "I didn't. I'm so sorry, baby."

"But you're not," I cried, turning away from him as my shoulders began to shake. I felt him come up from behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He pulled me against his chest, murmuring into my ear. "You're not sorry."

"Shh. I love you. You know I love you. I didn't mean any of it and I'll never, ever do it again," he whispered, pressing his lips to the side of my head. "Shh. I love you, Kurt. I love you so much."

"Then why did you do it?" My body slumped, all of the fight leaving me in an instant, and just like that…

"I – I don't know what came over me, but I was drunk. I was drunk and I didn't mean it." He rocked me in his arms, his head against mine.

"You can't h-hurt me and say you're sorry and then – then do it all over again," I sobbed weakly. "You can't keep doing this to me. You can't pretend like things are okay because they aren't. Things aren't okay."

"I know. I'm going to try this time, Kurt, I promise." He repeatedly kissed the side of my face, rubbing my arms. I could feel his tears on my neck and the guilt was spreading, rooting itself inside and taking over. Already, I knew he had won this battle. "You can't leave me. You can't leave me, Kurt, please. Stay with me. I'll be better, okay? I will. I can't – I can't live without you, don't make me."

"You're lying," I told him, chest heaving as I sucked air in harshly through my nose. "You're lying to me."

"I'm not," he murmured, and he was crying too. "I love you. I love you."

I turned around and his arms went around my back, holding me. I was shaking my head as his fingers gently wiped my cheeks and framed my face. He pressed his forehead to mine, kissing me. I didn't kiss him back.

"You're here, but you're not _with_ me," I choked out thickly. "I can't handle that."

"I love you, Kurt," he exhaled, and I couldn't tell if the cracks in his voice were sincere or not. "Please stay with me. Please. I need you."

And even though everything in my body was telling me that it was a trap, that it was just a game for him, that things would never be different, I stayed. I had to choose: my heart or my brain? Sebastian or my happiness? What I knew would happen or what I wanted to happen?

I chose all of the wrong answers, and if I had lost the battle, I was sure to lose the war.

* * *

I don't know why I stayed with him. At one point, I knew I deserved better, knew that he was abusive and that he was going to continue hurting me, but then he clouded my vision and I wasn't able to see it anymore. I was in so deep with Sebastian that I could have drowned in two feet of water, if he wanted me to. He had such a control over me that I wasn't able to fight and I never knew why. It never made logical sense to me, because I _knew_ what was happening, but I let him play tricks on my mind. It eventually got to a point where I believed everything he said, and I knew that was exactly his intention.

Looking back on it, I should have left as soon as I realized what he was doing to me, but I didn't. And I suffered for it.

* * *

Afterwards, when we were lying together on the bed, I was spent and exhausted, both emotionally and physically. I did my best to choke down the urge to cry and vomit, because it felt like my insides were all twisted and torn. The hands running up and down my sides made my skin crawl, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up on my own and let the tears fall in silence. But Sebastian had other plans, and as usual, what I wanted never mattered.

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you. I love you," he murmured against the shell of my ear. "Forgive me?"

"Of course," I replied immediately, accepting the kiss he offered. It tasted like the words of broken promises, the cracks forming in my heart, the copper of the blood running in my veins. Even though it was such a simple thing, a kiss, there were always strings attached, and I would have been foolish to think otherwise. So when he asked for more, again, I gave and gave and gave until I wasn't able to tell where he ended and where I began. We created an intricate pattern as we slowly became sewn together with our false sentiments and declarations of love. I could feel the thread, tugging on my skin and my heart as he let his lips roam over me. And I knew that soon, those patterns would transfer to my own wrists with the very same needle that had linked us as one.

And that was something I had to be okay with, because it was that guarantee of freedom, of eventual release, that allowed me to get through the night.

* * *

After that, I let myself begin to drown in him. In his lies, in his promises, in his apologies. In his dark hair and sea-green eyes and his greedy, greedy lips. Because the way I saw it, I had two options. One, I could let my brain fight against his words, because drunkenness and anger was _not_ an excuse. Or two, I could just… believe him. Give in.

So I finally did the one thing that I'd wanted to do since I was fourteen years old: I kept my head under water and stopped kicking.

* * *

It had been months since I'd tried to leave, and though he swore he would change, things stayed the same. We didn't fight much anymore because I'd learned not to say anything, but he still grew angry often. I allowed him to yell and belittle me, and once he was done, I would have sex with him. It was the only way I knew how to fix the situation, and while I felt disgusted with myself each time I did it, there was no other choice for me. He became blunter, even more controlling than he'd already been, and his motivations soon became clear to me. He wanted to dictate every aspect of my life – the people I went out with, the things I did, the clothes I wore. He was slowly taking my power away and replacing it with _his_ rules and _his_ wants, because he wanted to be the one in charge of my life. And he was – he had control of everything, and I gave in so easily, so readily, because all I wanted was to make him happy. If that meant cutting people out of my life or wearing sweatpants instead of jeans, then okay, I would do it.

In the beginning, it was just my male friends that he had problems with. Being a fashion design student in New York didn't give me many straight guys to chose from, so many of the people I surrounded myself with _were_ gay. Even though some had boyfriends and none of them showed sexual or romantic interest in me, Sebastian still had issues with me being alone or going out with them. Even when I was in class, he constantly texted me and asked who I was with, and it grew to the point where he forced me to end the friendships. After I had done that, he started to get upset with me going anywhere with _anyone_, and rather than fight him, I just withdrew from my entire circle of friends. At work, I brushed off any attempts to talk, and at school, I partnered with people I didn't know. Sebastian was the only person who I had a close relationship with, and I knew he wanted it to be that way.

He trapped me.

* * *

**January 12****th****, 2017 – Kurt's Journal**

_I saw a poster on my way to school today for the revival of Funny Girl. Rachel was on the front of it. She's starring as Fanny and her opening night is this weekend, which means that Sebastian will probably write an article on it. Even if I wanted to go, he probably wouldn't let me. I'm pretty sure that he knows that she's __my__ Rachel, because he came home a few months ago and suddenly asked me about her. He wanted to see a picture, and he told me it was because he wanted to __talk__ to me since we hadn't really been connecting as well as we used to. I thought it meant that he wanted to change, but now I know the real reason he did it. I should've known._

_It's unsettling thinking about them all being in the same room; my current boyfriend and my old boyfriend, my past and my present colliding._

_I haven't written in so long, but I can't talk about this to him. He doesn't like hearing about anything that happened before I met him or about any of the people that used to be a part of my life, because I think he gets jealous. That's why I was so shocked when he wanted to talk about her. I haven't really brought them up since after I told him everything in the beginning for that very reason, but this isn't something I can just ignore. I can't believe she did it. She made it, she got the part she's spent so long dreaming about. But it's scary knowing that her life – that __his__ life, that __everyone's__ lives – are moving forward, while I'm forever stuck right where I am, in this endless maze of a relationship._

_And now I know that Blaine's here, too, probably. I'm sure he followed her. Why wouldn't we? We always talked about coming to New York. He's somewhere, and I don't know how to feel about that. I don't know how I feel about __him__ anymore, honestly. I know that I'm happy for Rachel, as happy as I can be in my current state. But Blaine? It's too complicated for me to even start contemplating. Because I love Sebastian, so how could I possibly have any room in my life for any other feelings? We could never be friends anyways; the bridge was burnt to ash the second I left and Sebastian would never allow it. But just to see him, once? God, that could change everything._

_Except… would it really? I would never leave him. So there's no point in thinking about any of this, because it doesn't matter. I don't even think I'd want to be friends with Blaine, not now. Not with him in my life._

_I haven't thought of them in so long and now I know why. It hurts too much._

* * *

Eventually, Sebastian's domineering personality led me to become anorexic and bulimic. It was never something I wanted or liked doing, but rather something I did to please him, at least in the beginning. After a while, it became a way for me to have control over my situation. I told myself that I did it for _me_, not for him, and that he wasn't taking that power of choice away from me like he always did; I was able to make the decision out of the options available to me instead of being told what to do. It was about the weight a little bit – his words ensured that – but a large part of it was me being able to do something for myself and not for him, no matter how awful that something was.

At first, his opinions on my weight weren't outright or straightforward. It was through passing comments and judgmental looks when I ordered food that let me know that he wasn't thrilled with how I looked, but I simply ignored it. I shoved it in the back of my mind and told myself just to order smaller, healthier portions next time.

We were at an Italian restaurant when he finally decided to say something to me directly. The waitress came over and I ordered a parmesan-baked chicken breast with a five cheese ziti, but Sebastian interjected before she could write it down. He told her that I didn't need to eat all of that and asked for a Caesar salad instead, while I sat idly by, humiliated and unable to do anything but nod along with his words. When she walked away, he said, "You need to start losing weight and eating here isn't going to cut it for you."

So I decided to just stop eating all together. When I put more food in my body than I wanted to or when I was forced to eat to keep up appearances, I would immediately go to the bathroom afterwards before it settled in my stomach. I stuck my finger down my throat, flushed the toilet when I was done, and grew used to the acidic burn on my tongue. I went from a weight of one hundred and twenty pounds (which was healthy and not overweight, despite Sebastian's beliefs) all the way down to ninety-five, something that put me in an enormous amount of danger and caused me to become very sick. I would have to put several layers of clothes on and add makeup to my face before I went anywhere to cover up how gaunt and pale I looked. My eyes had lost their color, my skin became stretched and dotted with purple-black marks, and my bones were frail. I was quite literally a living corpse – a prisoner chained to the wall and bound by the shackles of Sebastian's limits.

And one day, I couldn't take it anymore.

I stood in the bathroom, examining my reflection in the mirror with wet cheeks. I flicked my gaze to the small silver blade that rested in my fingertips, sucking in a deep breath as my heart began to pick up speed. It was something I hadn't done in such a long time, because I didn't need to. I'd made excuses for Sebastian and shoved my feelings away and forced myself to get up and keep going every day because I loved him. I didn't know why, or how, but I did. I would lie in bed at night wondering what was keeping me with him, what was making me stay, and I could never find an answer. Maybe there wasn't one. Maybe I stayed simply because I didn't know what else to do or where to go, or because I couldn't justify leaving. My walking away meant hurting him, and I didn't think I could do something like that. Maybe I stayed because he needed me and I needed him, no matter how twisted and wrong we were. Maybe I stayed because I knew no one else would ever love me. I don't know.

There was so much hidden away under the cracks of my skin – so many cruel, demeaning words and bruises and false apologies resting in the walls of my heart. I was drowning in his lies and empty declarations to be better. I was suffocating. I needed to release it all.

I brought the razor to the skin of my wrist, pressing it tightly. And finally took a breath.

Because I was desperate to salvage our relationship, I continued to fight for the future we were supposed to have and the promises we made each other in the beginning. He always told me that he could make me so, so happy, and each time he said it, I would believe him. My grades started to slip and my enthusiasm for my job at Vogue began to fade because I realized that he was more important to me. He was more important than _any_ of it, and one day, he would see me the same way.

After he would hurt me, after he would leave scars on my body from his angry hands, after he would yell drunken, malicious accusations, he would fall to his knees and say, _"I love you more than anything, Kurt, you know that. Nobody's ever gonna love you the way I do."_ And I knew it was true – nobody ever would. So I would believe him and forgive him, because he was able to convince me with his lips and hands and words that he would change, that he would be better for me. I told myself that I loved him and that he loved me, in his own way, and I held onto the hope that it would finally be true. He continued to scratch and claw his way back into my heart, digging his nails into my skin as he whispered the _I'm sorry's _that I was so _sick_ of hearing into my neck. He never changed and I was left feeling caught between the man I loved and the man standing in front of me. I knew who he really was but I was too scared to admit it to myself; I wasn't ready to accept the truth. As the months passed, I longed for him to come back to me, longed for his soft touch and his glowing smile and kind eyes to return. I waited in denial, but I knew in my heart that he had left a long time ago and that he would never change. The Sebastian I fell in love with was gone. Or perhaps he'd been the same person all along, I don't know. He'd always been a good liar, after all.

* * *

I remember a conversation I had with him that night I met him at Central Park, when I was telling him about Blaine.

"I never wanted or needed a boyfriend," I said. "I never wanted him to fix me. And he couldn't, because it doesn't work like that. But he made it easier and after we got together, it was kind of a relief, in a way. We just never would have worked as friends, there was just too much… I don't know. Too much everything. Chemistry. Tension – and not always sexual, but literal tension. We were constantly fighting about something. But it's like we always had this feeling that we would end up together eventually, you know? Even when neither of us knew that the other liked us back, we individually had that gut feeling. He was just… he was everything. He was my entire world. And when we were friends, we were more of boyfriends without the benefits, I guess. I gravitated towards him from the beginning."

"How come you're in New York and not with him, then? He sounds pretty special," Sebastian asked, looking up from his lap at me.

"Sometimes things just don't turn out the way you wanted them to," I answered softly.

When I met Sebastian in May of 2014, I never imagined that we would end up how we did.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think? And next week's chapter will be pretty early, probably about Friday, because I'll be traveling and it'll work better for my schedule :)**


	16. Chapter 14

**A/N: Read cautiously ahead at your own comfort level. Let me know what you think?**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: EXPLICIT AND VIVID MENTIONS OF RAPE. References to suicide, allusions to depression, anorexia/bulimia, domestic violence, and emotional/sexual/physical abuse.**

* * *

**Chapter 14: Not Made For This**

_(Kurt, March 2018 – February_ _2019)_

_(Blaine, January 2019 – February 2019)_

* * *

"_**I am living in hell from one day to the next. But there is nothing I can do to escape. I don't know where I would go if I did. I feel utterly powerless, and that feeling is my prision. I entered of my own free will, I locked the door, and I threw away the key." **_

― **Haruki Murakami**

* * *

**March 12****th****, 2018 – Kurt's Journal**

_Once, long ago, I had dreams. I mean, everyone has them, so I must've, right?_

_I'm sure there was a time when I thrived on nothing but daydreaming, on imagining my future and the beauty of all of my desires being fulfilled. I'm sure there was a time where I thought the color of the sky looked like the clear ocean sea, or that the sun resembled the dandelions sprouting through the roots in my backyard. I would look up into the darkness of the night and I would notice all the twinkling lights of each individual star, thinking that maybe someday one would fall into my hands and I would have everything I'd ever wanted. And then I would look into Blaine's eyes and see those same stars staring back at me with a kind of tenderness that I'd never known, wondering how in the world I got so lucky. I would see everything – a gorgeous honey-hazel hue dripping warmth into my veins, two black pupils blown wide with lust and want, the pureness and simplicity of love in its barest form. I would hold his hands and be reminded of the softness of water, and I would run my fingers through his hair and think about the way a vine tangles all the way up a fence. He would lean in to kiss me and I would long for the world to stop spinning, for everything to freeze so that I could have a few seconds to live in that moment forever. I wanted to treasure it, engrave it into my memory and just gaze at his closed eyes and parted lips for a little bit longer._

_But those calm, serene times came few and far between, and I wanted something of us to take with me. Something that wasn't memories of him cleaning my wrists or of me holding the pieces of him together with my embrace. So I extracted the hitch in his breath and the curve of his cheekbone and the length of his eyelashes as he peeked up at me from his spot on the bed. I took the words that he had taught me how to write and I carved out endless lines about the pain inside me and the love we once shared. I caught the stars and counted them by two's, rearranging the constellations to try and make sense of everything that we had been._

_I know that once, I saw those yellows and greens and honey-hazel's. I know that once, I sat on a porch swing as the crickets chirped around me and I felt the arms of my first love wind around my waist. And I know that once, I used to be the dreamer of impossible dreams and the wisher of wishes upon stars that always seemed to fade away once the sun rose over the horizon._

_I'm sure there was a time where these things were true – in fact, I'm positive. I just can't remember any of it. I can't feel any of the things I used to feel and I can't see any of the things I used to see. Rather than the bright purples of the violets blossoming among the greens and yellows of a field, or the deep reds and oranges mixing in a haze as I watched the sun dip out of sight, I saw the blue of my veins against my skin and the crimson of the blood as it slipped down the inside of my thigh. I've been here before. It's familiar._

_And maybe it's sad, maybe it's tragic. Maybe it's just what life was always meant to be, something faded and dull and out of focus. Maybe it just __is_ – _existing quietly and forever in the immeasurable amount of space that we call time. Maybe it's something that happens when you grow up and realize that the world is not as you thought it to be. But mostly? It just feels lonely._

_Perhaps sadness is nothing more than the hollowness in your heart and the numbness in your body. Perhaps growing up is nothing more than your awareness of the worthlessness of your life compared to the scale of our planet and its history. Because we are merely a blip, an imperceptible and insignificant pinpoint on the radar of a universe that is __endless_. _It's past our ability as humans to even begin to imagine the concept of infinity, so we pretend that our problems are worth mattering and that our lives our worth living, and that we as people matter simply because we're people. But it's all a lie._

_And that's something I've finally realized. I've come to the conclusion that I am nothing of substance. I have not lived a life worth living, nor am I made of anything that matters, nor have I created anything worth mattering. And I never will, because nothing about me is of importance. I've come to accept that. So why should I want to see color or feel emotions or lead a life of virtue and significance? None of it makes a difference in the end, anyways. Not now. Not with Sebastian._

_Like all little kids, I used to question everything around me. I would think, "Why is the grass green? Why is the sky blue?"and when I asked my mom, she always smiled and said "Because it is." But that was never good enough for me. I always sat in my room and stared at the ceiling with my little tongue peeking out from between my lips as I tried to comprehend something I was never able to understand._

_And twenty years later, my answer, still, is that I don't know. There isn't some important, well-thought out answer as to why things are the way they are. There isn't a hidden metaphor or meaning that you can read between the lines. The grass is green because science made it that way and the sky is blue because it always has been – at least in our lifetime. That's it, end of story. When you're a child, you have the imagination to believe in endless creativity. You play make believe and rewrite your favorite movie scenes so that they have two boys instead of a boy and a girl, and you know in your heart that there isn't anything wrong with you – that people are just mean because they don't get it. That too, is a lie. People are cruel because they __choose_ _to be. The world will always be unkind, and nothing I do will change that._

_I am not this way by circumstance. There is always a reason, and mine is this: I'm just not made for this life. I wasn't made to watch my mom die when I was only eight years old. I wasn't made to watch my father slip farther and farther away from me when all I needed was for him to put his arms around me and tell me that it would be okay, that __I_ _would be okay. I wasn't made for harsh words and bruising shoves into lockers every day just for something as simple as wanting to be myself. I wasn't made to run into the arms of the only comfort I could find to help me escape the torment running rampant inside my head when I was barely fourteen. I wasn't made to sigh in relief at the feel of the warm stinging of the blood bubbling and trying to clot itself on my wrist. I wasn't made to meet a certain hazel-eyed boy on a staircase and I wasn't made to fall in love with him. I wasn't made to stay with him because of my selfishness and force him to sit idly by as I tore myself apart from the inside out. I wasn't made to wake up after I thought I had finally, finally faded away and escaped from this hell. I wasn't made to leave the love of my life and to deal with a whole new kind of agony afterwards. And honestly? I wasn't made to fall so easily into the trap of a man with a touch that burned and words that did nothing but hurt me._

_I wasn't made for Sebastian._

* * *

By early to middle 2018, I was ready to commit suicide. I thought that I would be able to handle it, to brave him and the things he did. But then I woke up one day, once again sore and bleeding from what he'd done the night before, and I realized something. What did I _really _have to live for? A toxic love that was drowning me from the inside? Bruising and angry hands that once promised to be gentle? Harsh words, razor blades, and the taste of acid in my throat? I knew I wasn't strong enough to face this every day for the rest of my life. I was an addict, like Sebastian was some specific brand of heroin designed just for me. He'd gotten into my bloodstream, and by the time four years had passed, I'd lost myself like so many times before.

I might have had hope, if it had all happened earlier. I might have fought, or tried to leave, or yelled and screamed and asked what he was _doing_ to me, and _why_? I'd done it all once, I could probably do it again. But I had been with him for so long and I knew better by then. There was no getting out or escaping or leaving. I would be with him until the moment I died, and I'd come to accept that because it was all I had known.

I eventually learned that it was better to agree than to fight back, and day after week after month, I did what he wanted me to do. I was only allowed to wear dull colors, like blacks or grays, because anything that was bright or colorful pulled too much attention to me, he'd said. My pants or shirts couldn't be tight, and I wasn't permitted to accessorize – so that meant no scarves, vests, layers, or hats. He only let me wear simple outfits, like sweatpants and plain t-shirts, because he didn't want other guys looking at me. I wasn't supposed to be noticed or feel good about myself because he told me that _he_ was the only thing that could do that. And I believed him when he said that because I didn't have a choice.

* * *

After he finally made me quit my job, a heartbreaking but expected verdict from him, my time spent in the apartment increased greatly. Even though I'd cut my hours back when we'd first started fighting, I was still busy trying to make a name for myself among the madness and insanity of our relationship, and he eventually took that away from me, too. It wasn't enough to just force me to leave Vogue, so in December of 2017, right after finals and a few months after I left work, he decided that I wouldn't be going back to Parsons, either.

I would always wake to find hands in my pants or to feel him inside of me, but it was something I got used to. It had been happening for a while and it would continue to happen for as long as I stayed with him. I was there to pleasure him, to let him use me every morning and night for as long as he wanted. Some days, he would come home angry, and I knew immediately strip and head into the bedroom. I knew not to question him when he held my hands above me and turned me over. I knew not to say anything when he didn't use protection or when it was painful, and I stayed as quiet as I could and was as obedient as possible because I didn't want his irritation to turn violent. While him taking advantage of me did hurt physically (sometimes unbearably so), it came with a mental pain, and that was something I was long accustomed to. Once I discovered how to turn my emotions off during those times, I would just lie there and take myself far, far away.

My options were severely limited: physical violence in the form of sex or physical violence in the form of a beating. I tried my best to do what he asked when he did want sex so that it wouldn't end up with him hitting or slapping me, but it didn't always work that way. On some nights, he was just so _angry_, and nothing I did would have stopped him, especially after he learned how to utilize me to his advantage. He used me all up in the bedroom to make me weak and emotionally exhausted, which meant that I couldn't fight back against him once he started hurting me with his hands. The more I resisted, the longer it went, the rougher his grip was, and the bigger the bruises were. Again, I knew to be quiet and to let him finish, because if I didn't it would only be worse the next time.

After he left for work and I had showered to get the feeling of him off of my skin, I would clean. And clean, and clean, and clean. For hours, I scoured the apartment – dusting, sweeping, mopping. I did the dishes and the laundry, made the beds, and scrubbed the bathrooms before I would go out to get any groceries that we needed. Then I would come back and start making dinner, because if he walked into the apartment to find that it wasn't made, he got upset. I made enough for two even though I never ate, knowing that he would want leftovers for lunch the next day. By the time he came home, everything was clean and his meal was on the table. He pretended not to notice when I sat across from him with no plate and he never said anything about me not eating, like it made the most sense in the world.

I had no job, no school, no friends. I had no self-esteem or bravery or alternatives. All I had were _not's _– a never ending list of things that I couldn't call mine_. _It was a horribly mundane, tedious routine, but there was nothing I could do but play along with Sebastian's games.

* * *

The last straw came on the first night I found blood in between my legs after he refused to stop having sex with me.

He had come home more furious than I'd ever seen him—I never knew why he got so angry, and I never asked—and before I could even start unbuttoning my shirt, he grabbed my arm. He dragged me into the bedroom and ripped my pants down quickly without thought. He shoved me on the bed face-forward, bent me over, and in less than ten seconds his own pants were around his ankles and he was inside of me. Already sore from his rounds that morning, I immediately felt pain flare up and I twisted around, pleading through gritted teeth for him to stop. He ignored me and continued on. Tears stung my eyes as the throbbing burn I was already feeling intensified, and when I moved around to protest again, he shoved my head into the mattress. It was difficult to breathe, and because his strength out-matched mine, I had no choice but to wait for him to be done.

Except it was never over.

Every time I thought he would stop, he would lay against my back, breathing heavy, shoving himself inside of me again after several minutes. It was an endless cycle, and after the third or fourth time, I almost passed out from the pain. I laid with my head in the comforter and cried as he used my body to get off, shoving down the urge to throw up. I was usually able to flip the switch on my emotions during sex with Sebastian, but for some reason, that was the night that I decided to feel _everything_. It was one of the worst experiences of my life, and I don't think I'll ever forget how dirty and disgusted with myself I felt afterwards.

When he was finally finished, I sucked in my tears and stayed silent as he pulled out, put his pants back on, and disappeared out of the room. I tried to stand up straight, gasping in pain, but I wasn't able to. I waddled to the bathroom, and when I reached behind me, I felt the blood. I let out a hysterical sob and covered my mouth with my other hand. I didn't know what to do or how to clean myself up without making it worse, so I braced myself against the counter top, leaning awkwardly. I tried to straighten out again, with no success, so I put my head on my arms and cried.

After an hour had passed with no word from Sebastian, I made a split-second decision. Angry, drained, and in severe pain, I shuffled over to the shower and yanked his razor out of it. With shaking hands, I fumbled to get the blade out and then held it between my fingers. I threw the stick to the corner, and before I even knew what I was doing, I ripped it across the crease in my wrist. Almost immediately, blood began spilling onto the floor. Tears were clouding my vision, but I continued to slice my entire left arm, over and over. I made dozens of marks, crisscrossing them over old scars, watching as the tile on the floor began to stain. I hadn't bothered to move back to the sink, so I was half-standing, half-crouching, and the more I cut, the more everything in me began to hurt. It felt like my body was being torn apart in different directions, my skin stretched over itself as my heart collapsed in my chest. It wasn't helping like it was supposed to. I was in a vortex of endless agony, both mentally and physically, and eventually my knees buckled under me and I fell to the floor. I let out a choked sob at the combination of the excruciating burn that he had left behind and the stinging numbness of my arm.

At that moment, Sebastian came into the bathroom. I heard him sigh before he reached down to pluck the razor from my hands. I swung at him, cutting the side of his finger, and he hissed, grabbing the hollow in my cheeks.

"Let it go," he demanded in a low, angry voice.

So I did. Because he told me to.

He lifted me from the floor and threw out the blade, quiet as he held a washcloth to my arm to stop the bleeding. Eventually it slowed, but I still felt extremely weak and my eyes started to close. He tapped my cheek, muttering, "Stay awake." I did my best to keep them open because I didn't want him angrier at me, but I after a few minutes of pointless effort, I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

I woke to find several layers of gauze taped to my arm and my body wrapped around someone who could only be Sebastian. I kept my breathing even, trying not to panic as I ran through my options in my head. At the time, I thought I was at fault for everything that had happened, so I wanted to make it up to him. I knew he was angry – I definitely remembered that much from the night before – so I did the only logical thing I could think of: I began to kiss his neck. I ignored the pain from the night before and squashed the heavy feeling settling in my stomach, knowing that if he woke up to anything less he'd be mad. His hand pushed me away, and then he pulled me tighter against him, sighing heavily.

"You can't move, Kurt, its fine."

"I'm sorry," I whispered into his chest, voice already thick as the guilt began to grow into fear. He didn't say anything, instead choosing to remain silent. I began to cry and the shaking of my shoulders only worsened the deep ache that had crept into me. It was then that I felt a wad of something in my underwear, soaked with wetness.

"Shh," he murmured, rubbing his hand up and down my good arm. "Shh, it's okay."

"I – I didn't mean to do anything," I choked out, my harsh breathing breaking up my words. "I'm s-sorry, p-please don't be mad at-at me."

"Shh. You're okay now. Next time, you'll just be better, right?" His voice was gentle, soothing, and I laced my fingers with his, resting them on his stomach. I nodded, curling closer to him. "When I came home last night, you seemed upset, so I tried to see if I could help. Maybe I went a little far, but it loosened you up, right? Made you feel better?" Again, I nodded my head in agreement, sniffling.

That was another one of his tricks – twisting the story. Changing the facts. Rearranging my memories of the event so that I could look back and say, "This was _my_ fault, not his." Never, not once, did he admit to his wrongdoings. He always created an excuse that freed him from the blame or found a way to shed a new light on the situation. And apparently, I had been upset last night and he'd only had my best interest at heart. He _had_ made me feel better and I wasn't focusing on what he was trying to do for me. In mere seconds, with a few sentences and a couple dozen words, he'd managed to get me to accept that I was at fault for the events that had taken place the night before. He'd managed to get me exonerate him without a trial, without any evidence of my guiltiness.

I believed what he told me because that's what he wanted. I believed his words because I always did. I believed him because the alternative was too horrific to even think about.

I believed that he loved me because I had to.

* * *

He didn't touch me for three days after that. I had to recover, he said, because I'd lost too much blood. I couldn't go to the hospital, so he let me sleep for the majority of the time and didn't ask me to do anything. I laid in bed for those long days, wondering for the hundredth time what on earth was keeping me with him.

* * *

After that, all of the sharp objects in the house began disappearing. His razor wasn't in the shower, the scissors weren't in his desk, and there were locks on the drawer with the sharp knives in them. I never said anything because I'd learned not to question him, but it didn't take long for me to figure out what his reasoning was. He didn't want me to have a way to kill myself, and it became increasingly clear when he took out our tub and had it replaced with a shower instead.

I'd always liked to lay in the bathtub with my eyes closed, letting my arms rest on gently out next to me, hovering. I was weightless, floating, and it felt like I could be anything as long as I took deep breaths and let my mind wander far, far away. I could _do_ anything in those moments and it would be that easy to sink my head under, let the molecules of hydrogen and oxygen fill my nose, and then it would all be over. No grand spectacle. No blood. No mess. Just a calm peace and a quiet, fade-to-black ending. Or so you'd think, because that's not how it would go.

I would never do it, not like that. And maybe that makes no sense, because it's good in theory, but of all the ways I'd want to die, drowning wasn't one of them. It never had been. I drowned enough as it was and I was tired of it. Nothing compared to the feeling of having your lungs fill and fill and expand as they gasp and gulp and sputter for air, getting nothing but a constant, unrelenting flood. Your throat gets tight and your tongue begins to swell and suddenly that was it, you just couldn't breathe and all you can think is _imgoingtodieimgoingtodieimgoingtodie _and it wasn't something you ever got used to, no matter how many times you experienced it. That's what being with Sebastian felt like. I knew that drowning could be still and calm, were it anyone else. But it was me, and I knew that my body wouldn't let me go that easily; I was trained to keep going despite the pain. Despite anything, really. Sebastian had taught me that.

I needed a red, slick, jagged finish that would make me feel every single drop of blood that would leak from the cracks I'd sliced into my porcelain skin. Because then even in death, I would feel alive.

Though if I had to – if I had a choice of continuing living the life on the road I knew I was about to go down with Sebastian or dying at the bottom of a cold, white bathtub with bursted, empty lungs – I'd welcome the water. I'd do it if I didn't have any other options, if I couldn't find something, _anything_, sharp enough to open my skin.

Except then I couldn't. Because he took that from me, too.

* * *

He knew that I wouldn't try anything outside of our apartment, and _I_ knew better than to even think about it. I only left to get groceries once a week and I called him every single time without fail, both before I left and when I got back. I didn't challenge his rules or attempt to sneak something past him because it was pointless and would only end in failure. He'd always find out and I wasn't willing to risk the consequences, so I did what he said. My only options for suicide were found at the hand of a blade or under the water in the bottom of a bathtub, and he had taken them away from me.

So I just decided to give up and I gave into him willingly,

I became a living corpse. I weighed about ninety pounds and had bruises all over my body that I meticulously covered on the rare occasion that I did go out. I didn't feel a part of the world anymore, because he _was_ my world, and I eventually stopped knowing how to interact with people. I let Sebastian have me whenever he wanted and I didn't cry when it hurt, when he didn't stop, or when I didn't want him to have sex with me. There was no use in fighting or getting upset about something that would never change, so I didn't. I just hid the visible evidence and cleaned the blood from my legs when it was there and went on with my day.

Once, when I went to the store, I decided to buy a pack of razor blades. I knew I was playing with fire and that I'd probably get caught, but I just had to see if I would feel something, if I would feel the sharp stinging and release. I didn't. But later that night, he took one look at my thigh and I knew that he knew what I'd done. When he finished with me, I wasn't able to walk for days and the next several weeks consisted of nothing but bruises in varying degrees of healing – black, purple, and yellow.

The next morning he woke me with soft kisses and apologies, and before he could even finish speaking, I knew he was going to want sex. "_I'm sorry for how I acted last night,"_ he told me, running his fingers up and down my leg. "_I just – you did what you did, and can you blame me? I love you so much, baby. You know that I love you, and next time I'll try to be more careful, okay?"_

Once more, I believed that I was at fault for his actions. Why? Because I loved him even though he didn't love me, not the way he was supposed to. So I gave myself to him and I let him touch me and use me, and I hated myself for loving such a monster. I didn't know if this was what being in a relationship was meant to be; I didn't have friends to compare notes with. I had been with him for such a long time that I came to expect violence and angry shouts and rough hands. I expected finger-shaped marks on my hips and blood between my legs. I expected his regret the next day with a promise to be better that was never actually fulfilled. I expected myself to always be at fault and responsible for the things he'd done wrong, and I expected him to love me in his own way, just like he always said, and nothing more.

But then I saw _him._

And I began to question everything.

* * *

**January, 2019 – Blaine**

One day, after I'd had a meeting with my manager, I decided to go for a run on the opposite side of town. We'd discussed the potential themes, messages, and sounds I wanted to get across to my audience, and then I played a couple of songs from my earlier demo for him. I told him that I didn't want to hire a professional to write for me because I wanted my music to be _real_ – I wanted it to be produced and written solely by _me_. I felt that having other people create my music would have been like having a ghost writer, and I didn't want to take credit for something that wasn't mine. I was long accustomed to composing songs and I felt in my heart that I had to do this my way or no way. I wouldn't compromise myself for anyone else, not ever again, and I expected him to give me an ultimatum and try and force me into something. Instead, he just told me that it was my album and that as long as my voice continued to sound the way it did, I could do whatever I wanted – within reason, of course. I was surprised when he didn't ask me to change the pronouns in my lyrics, but then he held up his hand, showing off the little gold band on his finger, and said, "I don't think my husband would be particularly happy with me if I did that."

So because I'd been ecstatic and full of energy, something I was still getting used to experiencing, even a year later, I was in the mood to explore the other side of the city that I had never seen. It was mid-February, so it wasn't exactly the ideal time (or temperature) to go out and scurry around the streets, but the snow was beautiful and I was happy and I just went with it.

Once I was done with my run, the excitement still working its way through my burning muscles, I decided to stop into a small café called _The Coffee Bean _to get something warm to drink. When I turned to go inside, I accidentally bumped into a stranger.

He turned to look at me and as soon as I caught sight of his eyes, my entire world began to fall around me like all the little snowflakes drifting from the sky.

Everything stopped for a single moment, a muted thud of a heartbeat, a breath exhaled from my mouth.

Everything changed.

Everything broke.

* * *

"Kurt?" My voice was barely a whisper, constricting tightly as my mouth tried unsuccessfully to form other words. I couldn't get my brain to focus or think clearly, because all it wanted to think was _whatwhatwhatwhat? _I looked at him, all the way from the sneakers on his feet to his gray sweatpants to his charcoal-colored jacket, and I stood still, rooted in place as flurries of snow blew in the wind around us. I'd never seen him dress this way before, so simple and plain – he used to wear such vibrant, colorful outfits with layers and scarves and accessories when he was doing well – and I wanted to take it all in.

I needed a moment, just one moment, where I could stop to breathe and finally release all of the air I'd been holding in my lungs. I knew that when my mind stopped short-circuiting and I was able to grasp that he was _there_, right in front of me like I'd wanted for so long, things would never be the same. I may have gotten over him, but I was still Blaine and he was still Kurt and the life that we'd shared before all of the turmoil didn't vanish with him. It prevailed, in my music and in my memories and in the person that I'd become. He'd changed me – for better or for worse, I'd never know, but he'd become someone different, too, and I wasn't ready to face that reality yet. So after I counted to five, after my eyes swooped over the lines of his face and the curve of his lips, after I let myself remember what it felt like to _be _with him... I let out a quiet breath, and with it, prepared myself for what was to come.

"I – I have to go," he said in a rushed tone, and then went to make his way past me. I caught his arm, and once he turned his head, I met his eyes again. I became dizzy, heart thumping wildly in my chest as my blood began to rush in my ears. My gloved hands began to turn numb as I stood in the cold with little protection – I had just expected a quick run, after all – but inside, I felt small, simmering charcoals starting to catch fire. Anger.

"No," I replied weakly, swallowing as I shook my head back and forth. "No."

"I can't do this."

"Why?" That was all I needed to say, all I needed to know, and it was thick with emotion when I choked it out.

"Because I just can't," he said desperately, tugging on his arm. "Let me go."

"No," I repeated, forceful. "_Why?_"

_Why did you do this to me? Why did you leave? Why are you here?_ There were so many "why's", so many unanswered questions and reasons left unsaid. And once he understood what I was asking, and more importantly, what he needed to answer, his body stiffened and his mouth tried helplessly to produce a response.

"I – I – Look, Blaine, I don't have time –"

_Blaine_. The way it sounded coming from his lips and the way it rolled off his tongue brought me back to lazy Sunday afternoons and porch swings and nights that we spent searching the stars for answers. It had been six and a half years since I'd heard him utter my name, and I never understood how much it meant until that moment. It was all he had to do to get my knees weak and my mind spinning out of control, filled with that one word echoing in my brain. I didn't hear the rest of his sentence, and I didn't need to. He was trying to escape and leave me once again, but I refused to let him do that. There were a million things that I thought I would say if I was ever given the chance, but I said none of them. Instead, I said:

"Yeah, well there were a lot of things I didn't have time for after you left, either." Immediately, I felt him suck in a long breath and look away before he fell silent.

Of all the way's I'd imagined this moment and rearranged it in my brain to make sense over the last seven years, this wasn't how I pictured it going. I'd dreamt of slow motion visions where we'd run into each other's arms, clinging to one another as if our lives depended on it, as if we never wanted to let go, as if we were melting into one being. I'd dreamt of tears and puffy eyes and aching lungs, of both of us screaming at each other that we'd never fallen out of love, that he still loved me and that I still loved him, and that _goddammit_, _why would you leave if you still loved me, Kurt_? But I'd never dreamt of anger, not like that, unaccompanied by the desperate love I felt. Of almost-silence. Of uncomfortable air.

"You think it wasn't hard for me?" he whispered thickly, quietly, after a moment.

I swallowed hard, crossing my arms over my chest. "I don't know. How would I? It's hard to believe that it was anything but painless for you."

"You don't understand–" he told me, his voice wavering.

"Then explain it to me."

He rocked on his feet in apprehension, glancing to his watch nervously. "I can't—"

"I don't care," I said, taking hold of his arm and opening the door to the coffee shop. I took us to the back, where the lights were dimmer and the chatter was quieter. He sat across from me timidly, and I saw the way his hands shook when he ran them through his unmade hair. "You owe me enough to at least tell me why you did it."

He was silent, dragging his fingers over his eyes.

"Why are you acting like this?" he asked in a choked voice, looking up at me with bewilderment, his eyes wide and glossy.

"I'm not acting like anything," I replied calmly, looking at him. I was shocked at my ability to contain my anger, to control what came out of my mouth when all I wanted to do was scream at him that he'd caused me to try and kill myself, that it took three years and four people and drugs and therapy to get over him. "I just want to know why."

He was crying now, hands wiping under his eyes as his shoulders shook.

"You don't know what it was like," I started, the anger beginning to fade into a completely unadulterated throbbing ache, "to wake up and find you _gone_. You don't know how much it _hurt_, or how much I _loved_ you—"

"Yes I do!" he countered loudly, tears running down his cheeks. "Why do you think I left in the first place? To protect you, Blaine!"

"Protect?" I scoffed, ignoring the way my heart flipped when I heard my name come from his lips again. My chest tightened as wetness began to gather in the corners of my eyes. "Yeah, that worked out real well, didn't it? It only took a couple weeks for me to try and k –" I stopped, clenching my firsts under the table. I couldn't tell him that, not now. Not surrounded by a dozen strangers in the middle of a coffee shop, with a fierce anger. Because if I told him that, then I would also tell him how much it still hurt sometimes – not just missing him, of course, not just the feeling of abandonment, not just how it took so many years to sort through those feelings. But all of it. How I had nightmares every so often, filled with faceless versions of my father, his loud voice filling my head until I woke in a panic, sweat beading my neck and blood pounding in my veins. How it wasn't always so easy, that I was still occasionally tempted by the pull and tug of the glint of silver that caught my eye. How I lived with so many scars, endless scars, all wrapping around my body and drawing ugly patterns on my skin with the remnants of the hatred I once had for myself. How even though I was out of therapy and had been for a little while, it would be something I would carry with me always, because it's not just something you _get_ _over_. It's something you _live_ _with_, something you're constantly reminded of because of the lines on your wrist and the worried looks on your friend's faces when you have a bad day. And if I told him that I tried to commit suicide, he'll know how much it affected me, and maybe he didn't deserve to know. So shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and ignored the excruciating voice in my heart, screaming at me to tell him so that he would understand. I changed the subject. "Do you honestly believe for one second that I would just let it all go?" I asked, staring at him with disbelief. "What did I tell you in the hospital? Hm? That I would spend the rest of my life blaming myself if anything ever happened to you, and I _did_. I blamed _myself _for your leaving."

"It wasn't your fault," he cried, shaking his head.

"I know that."

"I just – I couldn't stay with you," he said, voice catching as he began to cry harder. "I couldn't take you down with me and I didn't deserve you and I _couldn't do it anymore_."

"Couldn't do what? Us?" I asked sharply, furiously wiping the tears that were beginning to gather.

"Any of it," he sobbed. "I loved you, Blaine. I really did, and I knew that – that I had to leave to give you the best – best shot at having a happy life."

I didn't say anything.

"I never meant for that to – to happen, but I loved you so _much_, Blaine—"

"Don't you dare," I interrupted, lip quivering as I tried to swallow down the bubble in my throat. "You don't get to tell me that you loved me. Not anymore."

People were beginning to stare as he rapidly sucked in air, coughing harshly as he continued to cry with great force. I ignored them all and sat, looking away from him as I squeezed my eyes shut for what felt like the hundredth time that day. I breathed in deeply, but that only caused my own tears to slip faster down my cheeks.

Suddenly, his phone began to ring, and when it sounded from his bag, he jumped. "Oh my God," he muttered, dragging his hands across his face and clearing his voice hurriedly before he answered it.

I watched as he spoke to whoever was on the other line, and I could see the fear written into his expression. His hold on the phone was tight but shaky, and he did his best to cover up the fact that he'd just been crying. As I watched him, I noticed a small bruise on his jaw line that hadn't been there before, and it seemed like it had been hidden with concealer that was wiped away in his alarm. And when I _really_ looked at him, I realized that he was very, very skinny – gaunt and emaciated, even. My blood froze. Something was extremely, dreadfully wrong.

"No, no I'm fine," he said rapidly into the receiver. "I'm on my way home now, I'm sorry, I had to run out and get some things for dinner – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – please don't be mad, I'm so sorry – I'll see you in a minute."

He ended the call and began to gather his things right away, shoving everything into his bags as he sniffled.

"Who was that?" I asked, heart dropping into my stomach.

"I have to go," he said hastily, standing abruptly, and the loud scrape of the tile echoed in the small café. "He's pissed and if he finds out about this he's going to kill me. I'm not supposed to be here, oh my God," he continued, panicked. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." His fingers fumbled to pick up his stuff as they shook, and I watched as his alarm morphed into full-blown terror.

"Who was that?" I repeated, but he paid me no attention. I stood, walking around to him. "Kurt—"

"I just have to go, okay?" he squeaked, wiping his eyes again, and when I grabbed his arm, he winced. I made a quick reach to swipe my thumb over his jaw and the make-up smudged to reveal a nasty purple bruise.

"Kurt, what is that?" I was absolutely horrified, anxiety buzzing in my veins. I wasn't stupid. I recognized all of the signs – the profuse apologizing, the hysteria surrounding the call, the trembling of his hands, the hidden bruises littering his face, his cowering when I moved to touch him. Yes, something was tremendously wrong.

"It's nothing," he choked out, eyes wide. "I fell."

"You don't fall on your _cheek_—"

"I can't be here." He shook his head, gathering his bags in his arms as he scrambled frantically out the door. I rushed to scribble something on a receipt I'd found on the floor, clamoring after him.

"Kurt!" I yelled, running down the sidewalk. I put my hand on his shoulder and he let out a yelp, recoiling from my fingers instantaneously. "Kurt, look at me right now." My tone was deathly serious, hurried and frightened.

"No, I have to _go_." I caught his wrist, but he struggled and tried to pull away.

"What," I began quietly, looking into his panic-stricken eyes, "is that?"

"Nothing," he repeated, tugging himself out of my grasp.

"Kurt, let me help—"

"There's nothing you can do." His tone was rushed and he shook his head rapidly back and forth, crying as tears slipping from his eyes. "I have to go, God, Blaine, please let me go."

My heart was beating wildly in my chest, but it wasn't from anger or shock. I was no longer enraged or resentful like I had been – I was terrified to let Kurt go because I knew that wherever he was going was definitely not somewhere he should be living. If I allowed him to leave, I'd most likely never see him again, and the only image I'd ever have in my brain would be one of the bruises on his skin and the fear on his face. If I let him walk away from me, he'd be going home to an abusive god-knows-what – husband, boyfriend, fiancé? While it made me sick to think of him with someone else, I was more alarmed by anybody laying a hand on him, of someone doing _this _to him. The man in front of me was frightened, vulnerable, and in so much pain that I could see the shivers wracking his arms and legs.

"Kurt—"

"_No_, Blaine," he begged fervently.

I didn't know what to do, because I couldn't stop him and I knew that my delaying his leaving was only making things worse for him. So I uncurled my hand, shoving the small paper forward into his chest.

"Call me if you need _anything_," I told him in a pleading voice, and then he dashed away, back into the crowd and away from me.

I didn't know why I'd done that after I'd been so angry at him not even three minutes prior. But I didn't know why I opened up after he stopped me on that staircase, either.

Fate always did have an untimely way of bringing people together.

* * *

Right after he hurried off, I pulled out my phone and called Henley.

"Can I see you?" I asked immediately, not even bothering to wait for her hello, and my voice hitched. I sucked in a long breath and began pacing, running my hand through what was left of the gel in my curls.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" She was instantly concerned, and she had a right to be – I only ever did this when I was very, very upset. Usually, I'd have a bad day or something would trigger me and I would have to go to her so that I could talk it out. That rarely happened, only a handful of times since the end of my therapy, but I didn't have anyone else I could confide in about this. Telling Rachel was absolutely out of the question – she was busy enough worrying about her eight shows a week and making her first several years in _Funny Girl_ a success. And sometimes, there were just things I didn't want to discuss with Cooper, who had completely relocated his business to be with me, because we'd finally gotten to have some semblance of a normal relationship.

"I just have to talk to you and I need your word that everything I say will be confidential," I said, rushing to get it all out as my throat tightened.

"Wait, are you coming to see me as Henley or as your former therapist?"

"The second one," I whispered, tears beginning to form in my eyes again as I drug my hand over my face. "God, I don't know."

"Shh, it's okay," she told me soothingly. "Come in, I don't have an appointment for forty-five minutes."

"I'm on my way."

* * *

**Kurt**

After I'd gotten home from running into Blaine, I was terrified and jumpy throughout the entire night. Sebastian was always able to tell when I was lying to him, and there was no way in hell that I was going to say anything about what had happened because I knew he'd over-react. I had no plans to call Blaine or get in contact with him again, but I didn't want to even think about what he would do to me if he ever found the number.

When I walked into the apartment, he was waiting for me with a look of disappointment on his face. I was late and dinner hadn't been ready, so I knew I was in trouble. He demanded to know where I was, so I explained that the market had been out of the things I needed and that I'd been forced to go to another store. He'd been rough with me, which was to be expected, but I claimed a small victory for myself when I stopped it from getting physical. In attempts to make it up to him, I let him take me into the bedroom and use my body until he'd had his fill. While I wasn't proud of it by any means, I was too distracted and focused on making sure he didn't find out about Blaine to worry about him having sex with me when I didn't want it.

For the next several weeks, I was on excellent behavior. I cleaned the house and made sure Sebastian's food was ready every time he came home after work. I gave myself to him each morning and each night without complaints and I tried my hardest not to cry afterwards. I didn't eat much and I stayed under the weight goals that I knew he'd set for me in his head, consuming small portions and throwing up when I was finished. I ignored the phone number that was burning a hole in my dresser – I couldn't bring myself to throw it away so I'd stuffed it in a sock in the back of one of my drawers. I refused to call and did everything I could to forget about meeting him. I continued to love Sebastian, even when I knew he didn't love me the way he was supposed to, and I didn't ever even _think _about leaving.

But then one night, Sebastian came home very, very drunk. And it was the most violent he'd ever been with me.

* * *

**Blaine**

When I went to see Henley, I told her everything. I started with when I bumped into Kurt and I didn't stop talking until I got to the part where he ran off, and the entire time I was recounting the ordeal, my hands were shaking against my face. I was panicking and crying because I'd just seen him after _seven years_, and I experienced so many emotions in such a short time span. At first, I'd been wide-eyed and stunned, and then I was angry, and after that… I was just left with this pure, indescribable _ache_. But then I looked a little closer, saw what was actually going on, and everything was flipped upside down. I was terrified for him and what he had to go home to, and the worst part was knowing that I couldn't do anything about it. He wouldn't let me help him and that was like a punch to the gut because I had once been the person who was there for him through _everything._

I didn't know what I expected, but I guess time had changed things.

After that night, just like I predicted, things weren't the same. I'd been okay for about three years at that point – I was done with therapy and doing well in my career and in school, and while that didn't mean I was one hundred percent better, I was happy for the most part. Kurt was a chapter in a book that I'd already read, behind me but still important to my story. I'd never forget him, of course, but I wasn't _in love_ with him anymore. I was finally moving on with my life with a ferocity I never expected to have. And then I ran into him and my entire world was shaken, all the pieces of my life tumbling into one giant mess.

The more I thought about it, I realized it wasn't him having a significant other that was bothering me. I mean, of course I was initially upset about it, but that wasn't the reason why I was constantly uneasy for the next several weeks. If he'd had a loving, kind boyfriend, it would have been fine because that's what I'd _wanted _for him – to find happiness if that's what he didn't have with me. But when I found out that this person in Kurt's life who took my spot as his lover and provider, who was supposed to care for him, was his abuser? It was like waking up to find him gone all over again. It caused me pain when I thought about _Kurt_ being in pain, and having to go through every day not knowing if he was alright was absolute hell. I knew he wasn't eating because he probably weighed about ninety pounds, and I was almost positive it had been his boyfriend that had made him like that. I couldn't live my life the way I had been because I wasn't able to focus or concentrate, and being in the middle of recording my first record-label album meant that I couldn't afford to miss a step in my daily routine.

However, I found myself wandering over to my pen and notebook for comfort. While I _had_ continued to journal after my therapy, I usually only did it when I was stressed or upset about something. Now that I had a handful of people that I could talk to, I didn't need it as much. But this was a secret I had to hide, and since I'd seen him, I had written several songs. It was the only way I could pacify some of the fear that had permanently rooted itself in my body.

Almost immediately (and predictably), Rachel noticed the change in my mood. She'd become incredibly adept at reading me over the years and it never took her long to figure out when or why I was distressed. She asked me about it, but I just told her that I had a lot on my mind and said I'd come to her if I needed anything. She seemed satisfied enough – after my therapy period, we instilled an honesty policy between the two of us, and she trusted that if I wouldn't talk to her, that I'd go to Henley or Cooper – though she still kept a watchful eye on me. After that, I made sure to keep up appearances when I was around her so that I wouldn't worry her any further. She couldn't ever find out why I was acting like I was because I knew it would destroy her. I didn't even know how she would take it if Kurt came back into our lives – whether she would welcome him with open arms or tell him he couldn't come within thirty feet of me. She had watched firsthand what he'd done to me, and while I eventually ended up okay, I didn't imagine her reacting too kindly to him if they were faced with each other. The same went for Cooper, and I did my best to try to stay away from him for as long as possible, because I knew he'd know something was wrong right away.

But finally, after nearly two months of constant stressing and driving myself mad with envisioning scenarios of all the different things that could be happening to Kurt, I got the call that I'd been waiting for. How many times before had he needed someone to call, only to find out there would be no one on the other end?

* * *

**March 7****th, ****2019 – Kurt**

It was nearly four in the morning when a heavy knock on the door sent me flying out of bed immediately, bleary-eyed and restless. I shuffled into the living room with my heart pounding, already knowing it was Sebastian because this sort of thing happened often – him stumbling in drunk in the middle of the night. I always knew to prepare myself for anything that could come, because there was no stopping him when he became as intoxicated as he did during those times. I took a deep breath and turned the handle, steeling myself and trying to get a feel for his mood.

"Hey—"

"Why are you cheating on me?" he demanded angrily, his words slurring together as he leaned against the door frame.

"That's crazy, Sebastian, you know I would never– "

"Don't lie to me!" His voice was thunderous as he yelled, stepping off of the landing and into the apartment. He grabbed my shirt and shoved me back into the wall, his arm digging into my throat painfully.

"I love you," I choked out, eyes wide. "I would never – never hurt you like that –"

"Mm, you're a little slut," he sneered, letting out a cruel laugh. He hiccupped, and then his sentences started to run together. "You – you give it up to me so - so _easy_, and you're a-a whore and the only thin' is you're not makin' any money off the deal and honestly you're not – you're no good at it either."

"I—"

_Slap._

"Shut up. I don't feel like listenin' to you talk."

I whimpered as absolute panic took over. He had me helpless against a wall and I could barely breathe, so there was nothing I could do but follow his rules and wait for it to be over. My cheek was throbbing from the intensity of the slap, and that was only the beginning. I knew what was coming.

Over the next twenty minutes, he found pleasure in hurting me. He punched me in the jaw, causing my teeth to slice through my lip, and continually kicked me in the gut – but that blood wasn't visible. He forced and pinned me to the ground, and I knew that he'd ruptured something because I felt a burning flare up under my ribs. I tried to fight him, but his strength surpassed mine and struggling just made the injuries worse. I knew there would be finger-shaped marks on my collarbone from where his hand held me and a deep ring around me left eye from when his fist collided. He twisted my arms and I cried out when I felt a small pop, but he only forged ahead with ripping my clothes off. After he'd removed everything I had on, I laid naked in front of him as he hit me relentlessly, the sharp burn of the smacks sending jolts of pain through my body. Eventually, I began to feel numb and dizzy as the deep ache settled over me, but I could still vaguely feel the areas that he kept striking.

After I was bleeding and broken on the floor of the living room, on the edge of losing consciousness, I heard the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Terror ran through my veins and that's when I began to cry. It was then that I realized something – while being beaten and punched and kicked was excruciating and unbearable, having someone take advantage of you and your vulnerability didn't even _compare_. When someone forces themselves inside of you, or uses a part of you that's so indisputably _yours_ and private, _over and over and over _– that's something you'll remember for the rest of your life. He stole from me in the worst possible way and it's not anything I can ever get back.

I used to think that I was able to detach and separate myself from the situation whenever he would have sex with me, but it was a lie, because I felt _everything._ I felt it all, and it was catching up to me as I watched him get himself ready with swollen, drooping eyelids. I wasn't able to ignore the feeling of him shoved inside me, or the grunts that he made, or the sweat dripping off of his forehead onto my back, or the way he smelled as he roughly pinned me down when I attempted to resist. It was engraved into my brain and woven around every corner of my body – the five years of nothing but abuse and mistreatment and _rape_ had crawled under my skin and rooted itself in my bones.

Somehow, this time was different. I didn't know how I knew, but I did. It was like he enjoyed the desperation of my cries, or the agony of my screams, or the way the purple and black blossomed across my body. He'd never, ever been this mercilessly violent with me before, and I honestly thought that was the night I was going to die. It wasn't enough to just cause bruises this time – he decided that he wanted to see red, that he wanted to see my blood dripping like it was some sort of sick prize for him. _Angry_ or _forceful_ didn't even begin to describe him, which was usually the extent of it. There were always bruises, always small cuts and busted lips. But never this – never streams of blood or cracked bones or something so completely… _feral_. It was as if he was a lion who'd finally caught his prey. And me? I was just the foolish, naïve lamb.

It felt as though my chest was exploding, like my lungs were catching fire and burning a hole through my skin. I was drowning inside of my own body, choking on the blood and water, but the flames continued to silently rage under my skin. Every nerve ending was being licked by the heat of the fire as it wrapped itself tight around my brain, consuming and engulfing me with each breath I took.

The last thing I thought before I blacked out, with him still buried in me, was that I wished I wouldn't wake up.

Afterwards, when he was done, I laid on the floor feeling like I was caught in the afterlife I'd never believed in. Everything in me hurt too much for me to be alive, like there was no humanly possible way for me to have survived what had just happened. I reached out, choking on my breath once I felt my phone, and dialed the ten digits I'd inadvertently memorized.

I waited to hear his voice.

* * *

**Blaine**

At about six am, my phone lit up with an unfamiliar number. My sleep-muddled brain told me that I needed to answer it, so I accepted the call and put it to my ear.

"Hello?" I mumbled.

For a long time, I heard nothing except the static of the phone. And then a soft, quivering voice came through the receiver.

"Blaine?"

My breath caught in my throat.

"You have to – to come get me, I can't – can't breathe and everything, it hurts and there's so much _blood_ –"

It was Kurt.

* * *

**A/N: This was a very, very difficult chapter to write. Before you leave a comment and say that it's "cliché" or "predictable", remember that there are people in the world experiencing things like this. Abuse is so much more common than any of us want to believe, but it's there and saying that it's unbelievable (without having gone through it yourself) is an insult to those who have. This is a story that I want to get right, not a story that's going to be happy or pacify people. It's real, it's hard. Unfortunately, it happens and it's rarely ever discussed.**


	17. Chapter 15

**A/N: This chapter's a tough one. A lot of sensitive material is written, so proceed at your own caution. I owe a huge, huge debt of gratitude to Katie over at ****each-of-us**** on tumblr for answering my endless medical questions over the last year(s)! Her and google saved my life on this one.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to domestic violence, and non-con/rape, and anorexia.**

* * *

**Chapter 15: It's All A Chess Game**

_(Blaine, March 7__th__, 2019)_

* * *

"_**There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds." ― Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss**_

* * *

**Sunday, March 7****th****, 6:00 am**

The second I heard his terrified, hysterical voice, my instincts kicked in and I threw my covers back. I flew out of my bed, shoving my feet into the closest pair of shoes as I held the phone to my ear in an attempt to understand what he was saying to me. I knew why he had called; it had just been confirmed once he spoke.

"Shh, it's okay," I said, trying to soothe him, and I didn't even think before I was running out of my room and through my apartment. I dashed to my front door, heart pounding in my chest as I shoved it open and then took the steps two at a time down to the ground floor. "Where are you?"

He choked out his address and I promised him that I would be there in five minutes. He repeatedly cried, over and over, that it wasn't _his_ fault and that it was an accident. He said that _he_ hadn't meant to do it because _he_ loved him, and his words were nearly incomprehensible as he pleaded with me not to tell anyone. I wasn't stupid enough to pretend that I didn't know who _he_ was, nor I wasn't stupid enough to believe what he was saying. Two months earlier, during my last interaction with Kurt, I'd gathered that he had an abusive partner and now I was positive of it. This boyfriend, this person who had so deeply and violently hurt Kurt for god knows how long, didn't love him. He was a monster – a sick, vile _monster_ – and my anger boiled inside of me as he continually fought to protect this man that had done nothing but harm him.

But I knew Kurt was so twisted and backwards by the lies he'd been told that he would never accept the truth.

To make sure he didn't hang up before I was able to get to his apartment, I kept murmuring that he would be alright to try and calm him. His responses gradually went from hysterical to desperate, painful whispers, and then after a few minutes, the line was silent.

"Fuck. Kurt? Kurt, stay with me, okay?" After no response, I frantically called 911 and sent them to him, pushing my feet faster.

As I ran to his building, I thought of Rachel and what she would think when she woke alone. Usually, I would be out on a jog by the time she got up, so it wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary for her – until she came home from work to find me still gone. There were several reasons why I hadn't bothered to bring her with me or leave a note explaining where I was. One, she'd been out late the night before because she'd been performing in _Funny Girl_ and I knew she needed her rest. Two, she had her last show of the week (the Sunday matinee), and she was typically ready to leave around noon-ish to be at the theater on time. Because I never mentioned my encounter with Kurt months earlier, life for her was exactly the same as it had been for years. This was something completely out of the blue and utterly unimaginable, so I couldn't just drop this on her in the early morning hours or over the phone. I would have to sit her down and explain what had been going on in a calm matter, which meant waiting until after she got out of work when she would have a night and a full day off to absorb the information and help me figure out what to do. She would've reacted hysterically if I'd told her right after Kurt had called and I didn't have the time to give her the explanation that she would've wanted.

The closer I got to him, the more questions I began to have and the more anxious those fears became. What did this mean? How bad was he hurt? Would he need surgery or therapy? Would he come home with us? Would he go back to his boyfriend? What did all of this mean for me and all of the progress I'd made? How was I going to break the news to Burt? What if he didn't make it?

It was then that I shook the thoughts out of my head. Thinking about things that were out of my control would do me no good, so the best thing for me to do at that moment was get him to the hospital. And in order to do that, I needed to stay focused on getting _to_ him so that I could be there when the ambulance arrived. Once I knew that Kurt wasn't in immediate danger, I would go from there and come up with a plan for moving forward.

I was able to find his apartment building easily because as I approached on the address, I could see the lights of the ambulance flashing. I ran up the staircase and into the open door, stopping when I took in the overwhelming scene around me.

Kurt was lying unconscious on the ground with EMT's surrounding him, shouting terms to each other that I didn't know or recognize. They had the stretcher behind them as they checked Kurt's pulse and immediately began to put an oxygen mask on him. I watched in panic as his chest rose and fell infrequently as he tried to suck in the air that he choked on. One of the medics yelled that they had to get him to the hospital before his lung collapsed, and then they swiftly but carefully picked his body up and laid him on the bed. I gasped when I saw the blood stains on the carpet where he'd been, heart racing as my hand flew to cover my mouth.

"Are you the one who called?" A woman from behind asked me.

"Y-yes, I am," I got out breathlessly, tearing my eyes away from the medics that were rolling him out. "He called me a few minutes ago. Can I go with him?"

She nodded, motioning for me to follow her, so we went through the door and down the stairs. "You're gonna sit with us in the back there, and if there's anything you can tell us –allergies, medical history, or who to call…" She let her words trail off as she climbing in behind Kurt, and I nodded numbly, following suit.

"He's – he's not allergic to any medications as far as I'm aware, but I'm not sure about any medical history in the past several years. I don't – I don't know a lot, but I can call his parents as soon as we get to the hospital."

"That's fine," she replied. "You're sure he's not allergic to any medications?"

"He's not." I ran my fingers through my hair, sucking in a deep breath. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's got a few fractured ribs and one of the pieces punctured his lung, so we have him on oxygen because he can't breathe due to the left one starting to collapse. A possible concussion, but we won't know anything until we can get him in for scans, and he's probably got severe internal bruising," she informed me. "Do you know what happened?"

"I think his boyfriend was abusing him," I said. It slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it and I held my breath, waiting for a look or a scoff, but it never came.

"That's what I assumed, spousal abuse or an invasion of some sort," she told me, sighing as she looked to Kurt. "But because typically a robber would just hit him once and then run, I was leaning more towards domestic violence."

"What's the next step? What can I do for him?"

"Well, you can call his father, who's most likely his medical proxy. We'll check on that, but we can't wait because he needs to be rushed into surgery right away before his lung collapses completely. Depending on the severity of his other injuries, he may very well still be unconscious afterwards so we'll need the okay to go ahead and give him medications or proceed farther than the immediate operation."

"And if his lung does collapse?"

"We can't think that far ahead. What's your name, sweetie? I'm Kylie."

"Blaine," I whispered, setting my jaw as I saw the stuttering of his chest.

"Blaine," she began, looking at me with kind eyes, "It's going to be okay. Don't think about anything past this moment, alright? We're going to get him into surgery and pray that everything goes as it should. Our surgeons have done this hundreds of times and they're well-equipped to help him, so we've just got to get him there as fast as we can."

"What about his concussion?" I asked, throat tightening.

"From what I've seen in most abuse cases like this, the patients are typically forced to the ground and the harm is done with extremities, like feet and hands," she started to explain. "What's his name, Blaine?"

"Kurt."

"Okay, if Kurt was hit hard enough, or if he fought back – which it seems like he did, looking at his knuckles – then it's very possible that his head could've been hurt as well, because the attackers tend to become more aggressive if the victim struggles or tries to get away. I'm not sure of anything, but he's slipping in and out of consciousness, so it's likely that there's some kind of brain trauma, we just don't know how severe it is. However, our top priority right now is his lung because there's nothing we can do for the concussion at this very moment."

I nodded, swallowing. The words were whirling through my ears, but it was hard to absorb the information she was giving me because it didn't seem real. How could I – how could _Kurt_ – be in this situation? How did we _let _ourselves end up in this situation? I'd dreamt for years and years about us somehow defying the impossible and meeting again in the future, but this wasn't how I wanted it to be. This wasn't what I wanted for him, not even during all those years I spent being angry at him for leaving.

As we sped towards the hospital, it was the first time that I'd really had the opportunity to _look_ at him. All he had on was a pair of ripped boxers (which I assumed the medics had put on out of courtesy for him) so his injuries were all completely visible. His eyes were puffy and swollen shut, with one of the having a deep, black ring around the socket. His lip was ripped open, the blood having dripped down and dried on his chin. His nose had also been bleeding, and every few seconds, he let out a stuttered breath – the only sign that he was alive. Though he had an oxygen mask on, I could still see his chest rise and fall sporadically as it tried to make up for the hole in his lung. His skin was stretched tightly, causing his bones to jut out at sharp angles, so it was then that I became aware of just how dangerously skinny he was. His neck, arms, and legs were littered in dark purple bruises, and I could see the finger-shaped marks around his wrist and upper shoulder. There was blood covering every surface of his body, especially on his face and arms, and I noticed the heavy bruising near his ribcage, which I knew was from his lung.

But then I let out a choked gasp when I realized that the insides of his thighs had the deepest bruises and the most blood. I didn't want to think about what that meant, but I couldn't shove the thoughts out of my mind.

"Oh my god," I whispered, voice catching on the lump in my throat. Tears burned behind my eyes and I bit my lip as everything began to come together. He'd only been wearing boxers and they were ripped to pieces, either like his boyfriend had tried to get them off in a hurry or like Kurt had fought back and made it difficult for him. The finger marks on his hips and the purple-black blotches wouldn't have been there if Kurt hadn't struggled, so it must have meant that whoever did this to him had _forced_ him to lay still on the ground. And I knew there was only one reason he would've been pinned to the floor by greedy, violent hands.

I shook my head as the tears began to fall, brining a shaky hand to my mouth. "No," I said through my clenched teeth. "No. Oh god, this can't be happening." I turned to look at the nurse with a desperate, pleading expression, hysterical as I glanced between her and Kurt wildly. "Was he raped? Did someone – did someone _rape_ him?" I asked, sucking in harsh breaths. She was silent, glimpsing at his unconscious body and then at her lap. "_Was he_?"

"It's possible," she murmured. I continued to shake my head, running my hands over my face and through my curls. I held his fingers lightly in my grasp, bringing them to my lips.

"You're going to be okay," I told him fiercely. "You're going to fight, alright?"

"He's already a fighter, Blaine," she cut in softly with a small smile. "Those bloody knuckles don't mean nothing. He's still with us, and that's a miracle. He's strong."

* * *

The second we arrived at the hospital, Kylie jumped up and opened the door, promising me that he was in good hands. The other EMT's rushed to get Kurt's stretcher out and he was immediately taken back into surgery as the doctors began shouting things at each other. When I ran in after them, the nurses told me that I had to wait in the waiting room and that I would be informed as soon as there was news. I paced back and forth as I tried to calm myself down, but the worry in my chest only continued to grow. I pulled out my phone and saw that it was almost six thirty. I chewed on my lip as I debated on whether or not to call Rachel, because I knew that she deserved to know, but thought better of it and called my brother instead.

"Cooper?" I said as soon as he answered. "I'm at Bellevue Hospital Center Emergency Room. I need you to get here as fast as you can."

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is Rachel okay?"

"No, it's – it's not me or Rach, but I just – I'll explain it all when I see you. Can you come?" My voice was thick with the tears that were stuck in my throat, and he could tell that I was on the verge of crying because his reply was gentle and soothing.

"Yes, I'll be there soon. I love you."

* * *

As promised, he came hurrying in about twenty minutes later. I ran to him and he wrapped his arms around me, holding me to his chest.

"What happened? Who's here?"

"It's Kurt, Coop. He – he called me to go get him because – because he was hurt," I rushed out, ignoring the stinging in my eyes. "I rode here in the ambulance."

He pulled away and gave me a confused look. "Kurt? Kurt's _here_?"

I sighed, wringing my fingers together, and motioned for him to follow me. I sat in one of the chairs in the emptiest part of the room, running a hand over my face. "About two months ago, I bumped into him when I went to get coffee after a run."

"You _saw him?_ And you didn't mention something like that to us?"

"Cooper, I_ couldn't_," I told him in a desperate tone. "What was I supposed to do, walk in and say 'guess what, guys? I found Kurt!'? Do you know what Rachel would have done? She has enough to worry about with her shows and I didn't want to tell you because you get so protective over me– "

"You're damn right I do," he cut in angrily. "Do you expect me to greet him with sunshine and rainbows after what he did to you?"

"You don't understand. You can't just go see him and start yelling and screaming–"

"Why? You had to go to _therapy _for nearly two years, Blaine. And you tried to _kill yourself_," he argued in a hushed voice. "I won't sit here and allow him to get away with that. He needs to know what he did!"

"You don't think I said all of that stuff to him when I saw him? I was absolutely furious! I thought I had gotten over it, but then he was there, in front of me, and I just…" I trailed off, dropping my head into my hands. "God, it was awful. And then he started crying, and saying how sorry he was and that he didn't want to hurt me –"

"Bullshit," he interjected. "Bull. Shit."

"He told me that he left to protect me. But then his phone rang and you should've seen the look of fear that crossed his face, Coop. He was absolutely terrified of whoever was on that goddamn line, and right after he hung up, he started throwing everything into his bag. He was panicking and frantic as he ran out of the door, so I scrambled after him. I caught his wrist and wiped my thumb over his cheek, and there were bruises all over his skin. He – he had covered them up with concealer, and he probably only weighed about ninety pounds, and I – " I stopped, shaking my head as the tears began to slip down my cheeks again. "God, I don't even know, Cooper. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't know who's doing this to him."

He let out a long sigh, rubbing his hand across my back. "Well first you have to call Burt – he needs to know about this. I can do it if you don't want to."

"Please," I said, running swiping under my eyes with my fingers. "If I call him, I'm not going to be able to get anything out. Tell him that Kurt was rushed into surgery, but nothing else. I'll have to explain everything in person when he gets here."

"Do you know what's wrong with him or how bad the injuries are?"

"They said that one of his ribs punctured his lung and that it's collapsing, so that's what they're taking him into surgery for. He probably has a concussion, but they won't know how bad it is until they're able to get him in for scans. There was _so_ much blood, Coop. Every inch of his body was covered in bruises, and he didn't have any clothes on, and there were these finger-shaped marks on his arms and his _thighs_, and I just– " I paused, taking a deep breath as I covered my mouth with shaky hands.

"Shh," he murmured, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling my closer. "He's going to be okay, Blaine. They're helping him right now."

"What if something goes wrong?" I countered, almost hysterical.

"It won't." His voice was firm and left no room for argument. "All you can do now is be there for him. It sounds like he's going to need support when he wakes up, and he's going to need people to fight for him because he might not do it for himself." I knew that while he may have had sympathy for Kurt on some level, he was mostly saying the words for my benefit, but it was something I appreciated nonetheless.

"I don't know what the right thing to do is," I said in a thick voice. "I can't let him go back to whoever did this to him. I can't. I won't. I don't care what he did to me in the past, I have to help him."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, alright? You need to go call Rachel and I'm gonna call Burt."

"I can't call her, she's got a show."

"_Blaine_. Call her. The understudy can take her place, she's gonna wanna be here for you. You need her just as much as you need me. I may be your brother, but she's your sister, too."

I agreed after a moment of hesitation and then we both went outside to make our respective calls.

Rachel picked up chipper and happy, working through her usual morning routine at our apartment. "Where'd you run today? Are you gonna get breakfast or should I start– "

"Rach, it's important," I cut in shakily, and I heard her pause. "I need you to come down to the Bellevue Hospital ER."

"Wait, what? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I can't explain over the phone, but I'm with Cooper. I need you to be here with me. Can you call your understudy to fill in for you today? I'm really sorry, Rach," I told her, walking up and down the sidewalk anxiously as I blinked my tears away. "I just – god, I really need you."

"Don't be sorry, it's fine," she said. "If you need me, I'm coming. Just give me about a half hour so I can talk to the director and let him and the understudy know, alright? Is there anything else you want me to bring or do?"

"No, just you. This is – it's big. It's really big, and Cooper made me call you because he thought you'd want to know. I was gonna call you after your show, but…"

"You didn't get anyone pregnant, did you?" she asked, and I knew she was just trying to make me laugh.

"No, I did not get anyone pregnant on account of how I still like penis," I replied into the phone, shaking my head. "Promise."

"Good to know. I love you, alright? I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you," I exhaled, and then I hung up.

When I looked over, I saw Cooper walking towards me, dragging his hand over his hair.

"Burt's a mess. He's freaking out," he stated, and then added, "With good reason. He's pissed that I won't tell him anything and he started yelling, so Carole took the phone from him. It takes around nine hours to get from here to there, but she told me that they'd be here in probably about seven and a half. Finn's coming too, they're going to get him from his apartment. Said the next flight wasn't until tomorrow morning."

"God, okay. That's – that's going to be tough," I replied. "I have no idea what to tell him. I mean, what am I supposed to – I just."

"He's going to be angry no matter what you tell him. He hasn't seen his son in seven years and suddenly he just shows up?" He ran his fingers over his chin, letting out a breath. "I mean, what are we supposed to do? There's not exactly a manual to follow when the ex-love-of-your-life who almost made you kill yourself comes back into your life with an abusive boyfriend. It's all shot to hell now."

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.

_ It's gonna take some time for him to get used to Kurt again_, I reminded myself. _Just because you've already forgiven him doesn't mean he has._

"What about Rach?"

"She's coming in about a half hour. She has to get everything taken care of with the understudy."

"Are you going to call Hen or Charlotte?" he asked.

"I didn't even think of that," I admitted, biting my lip. "I should, even though I don't want to get them involved. But they deserve to know, especially after – after everything they did for me when he left." He gave me an understanding smile, squeezing my arm.

"Okay, while you talk to them I'm gonna go see the front desk and ask what the next step to do in all of this is. I'll meet you inside."

"Alright," I nodded, already dialing Henley's number as he stepped away. After a few rings, she picked up, groggy and confused.

"Blaine?" she whispered. "Is everything okay?"

My lips curved upwards sadly. She really knew me, didn't she?

"No," I said. "Things aren't okay."

* * *

"She told me that when Kurt gets out of surgery, he'll be admitted to the ICU," Cooper said, walking over to where I sat in the waiting room. He sighed, stopping right in front of me. "Which means family only."

"What does that – so I can't even see him?" I began angrily, eyes squinting together in confusion.

"Burt has to be the one to put you on the list," he replied. "He might be in surgery for awhile anyway and he'll probably be pretty out of it once it's all done, so I honestly doubt they'd let you in regardless for the next twenty-four hours."

"They'll be here in about seven." I drug my hands over my forehead and through my hair. "So I just have to sit here and wait while Kurt's _fighting for his life_ right now."

"We'll all keep your mind off of it, alright?"

"I…okay."

"Do you have to record today?"

"Fuck. I don't know. I have a session tomorrow, but I'm going to have to cancel or at least move it back a few days. There's no way I'm going to be able to record anything–"

"You can't just cancel, Blaine. You know how pissed they get when you do that and I don't want you losing your deal." He wiped his fingers over his eyes, letting out a long breath. "Kurt might still be sedated tomorrow because of how much pain he'll be in, so you can go in the morning to your session. If he wakes up, it'll be later in the day and you'll be back by then."

"I don't know…" I started hesitantly. "I can't just leave him here –"

"You won't," he said, looking me in the eye. "Burt'll be here to keep an eye on him. And Carole and Finn and he's got an entire team of nurses and doctors at his bedside in case anything goes wrong. You've worked too hard on this deal to just let it all go now, alright? I won't let you do that." I sighed, looking at the floor. "Do you have any other sessions this week?"

"No, not until next week."

"See? So you just have to get through tomorrow and you have to go to the coffee shop a few nights. And then you can spend as much time as you want with him here, okay? But your music and your work comes first, and we have no idea how he's going to react to any of this or if he'll even want to see any of us. You're not throwing everything away for him again, Blaine."

"No, I know, I just –" I stopped, inhaling as I picked my head up. "I don't even know."

_ It's not that easy anymore._

* * *

Once all three girls had arrived to the hospital, they gathered around Cooper and I as I began telling them what had happened.

"I need you to promise me to stay calm and let me finish, okay?" I told them, and Henley looked at me, nodding subtly. She knew what I was about to say. "None of it's gonna make any sense until I explain all of it, and even then it still might not." They all murmured a confused agreement and I took a deep breath before I began.

I started with when I ran into Kurt two months prior. I described the whole ordeal, telling them of how I'd gotten angry and of how he'd acted. I detailed the state that he had been in – hesitant, nervous, hysterical – and told them about his shaking hands, that he was emaciated, that he wore make-up to cover the bruises on his skin. I recounted how panicked he got once his phone rang, remembering the way he'd spoken to the person on the other end. He'd immediately stopped his tears and began profusely apologizing, terrified to say the wrong thing as he swore that he'd be home soon.

"He wouldn't tell me who it was," I murmured. "All he said was that he couldn't be there and that he had to go, because _he_ was gonna kill him if he ever found out. He scrambled out the door and I caught him on the sidewalk, but he wouldn't let me stop him. He was crying and trying to get away, so I just gave him my number and let him go."

"Oh my god," Rachel whispered. "Is this – are you serious?"

"Why didn't you call the police if you thought he was being abused?" Charlotte asked.

"I couldn't," I replied desperately. "He wouldn't let me, and I didn't know where he lived so I wouldn't be able to even if I wanted. I knew that if I interfered in any way, it would only hurt him more."

"I told him not to open a case," Henley said, sighing. "I've had some abused patients come into my office before and forcing the police on them only makes things worse. They have to _want_ to get help, and sometimes it's hard to get enough evidence together to prove the claim, so it has to be thought out before anyone else gets involved. The cops might've been able to get his address, if he's in any kind of data base somewhere, but then that's just opening a massive, massive can of worms. We'd be uprooting his entire life by doing that and invading his right to make his own decisions. This is such a delicate situation and now that he's here, I'm not sure what–"

"Wait, wait, wait. You _knew_ about this?" Rachel squeaked. "And I didn't? Blaine, why didn't you _tell_ me –"

"Rach, he didn't even tell me," Cooper cut in quietly, looking at her. She stared back, eyes wide, before focusing on me again.

"I couldn't tell you," I responded softly with my head down. I let out a breath, playing with my fingers. "Things had been going so great and everyone was so happy and I just – I couldn't. I didn't know how you guys would react so I went to Hen instead. She couldn't tell you what happened because of patient confidentiality since I went to her as a therapist and not a friend. I didn't want to stress you because there's nothing you could've done anyways."

She got up and wrapped her arms around me. "Blaine," she said gently into my ear. "I would have been there for you. I'm so sorry you had to go through all this alone. But we're here now, alright? We'll figure it out."

I hugged her back and once she sat down, Charlotte grabbed my hand. "How's he doing?"

"He's in surgery now. The EMT told me that one of his fractured ribs punctured his lung and caused it to collapse, so they had to rush him here on oxygen because he couldn't breathe. He probably has a concussion because he was unconscious when they got there but there's not much they can do for that until he wakes up. And his entire body, god, it's _covered_ in blood and bruises. The heaviest bruising is on the insides of his thighs and he didn't have on anything but ripped boxers, so – " I stopped, swallowing down the bile in my throat as I put a hand to my mouth.

"Do they think it's…?" Rachel asked almost inaudibly.

"She definitely thinks it's a case of abuse," I nodded, throat tight as I ran my hands through my hair. "She – she said that it's very possible that it was more than… physical."

"How would we... how do we handle that?"

"Legally, you can't," Henley explained. "Kurt's an adult and he's the one that has to agree to let the cops collect evidence or do an investigation. If he doesn't want to press charges, there's nothing any of us can do."

I sighed, digging my the heels of my palms into my eyes.

"I think that's enough for now," Cooper interjected, looking at me.

"Can you guys talk about something else please? Anything. Just distract me," I said desperately, swallowing.

"Yeah – yeah, sure," Charlotte said, and then launched into a story about a customer that came into the coffee shop every day and ordered an egg and sausage bagel with cheese even though they didn't have that on the menu.

I leaned my head on Rachel's shoulder, letting the quiet, mindless chatter fill my ears.

* * *

**Sunday, 3:00 pm**

When Burt showed up, I began to panic. I hadn't seen or talked to him in years. We'd kept in touch for the first year after he'd left, but then the calls and visits had drastically dropped after I went to New York. I was too busy and it was just too painful, so we let the relationship fall and never tried to pick it back up again.

Now, I had no idea how I was supposed to tell him about Kurt and why he'd suddenly reappeared in our lives because I really wasn't sure myself. I didn't know why he'd come back or why I'd been lucky enough to have been in that exact same spot on the day we literally stumbled into each other. I didn't know why he called me after I spent two months staring at my phone, waiting for any unknown numbers or midnight calls. I didn't know where we would all go from here, if Kurt would come home or if we'd leave without him. But the one thing that I did know was that this was something drastic and monumental and life changing, and it wasn't something any of us ever expected to happen. After days and months and years passed without word from Kurt, we all quietly assumed that it was over. That was that, end of story, he wasn't coming home. People run away because they don't want to be found, and Kurt obviously didn't want to be found. So we left it alone. We eventually continued on with our lives. We did our best to heal ourselves and live with the dull ache in our hearts where he should've been.

But then this happened. I found him again after nearly seven years – randomly, suddenly, stupidly in front of a coffee shop on a _New York City_ sidewalk – and I couldn't let him go a second time. And once Burt saw him, I knew that he wouldn't ever allow him to leave. There are some things in life that are just inexplicably unbearable, and a parent having to go through the pain of losing a child is one of them.

Which is why I knew that telling him was going to be next to impossible.

He came through the doors of the ER like a bat out of hell, with Carole right on his heels telling him to calm down.

"Where is he? Where's Kurt?" he demanded, looking around. "Where's my son?"

"Burt," Carole warned, catching up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Let Blaine explain."

"We drove eight hours from Ohio to New York to see the child that's been gone for seven years and is now in the hospital and we weren't given any kind of explanation. I'm allowed to be pissed, Carole."

"It's not something I can exactly… explain on the phone," I began hesitantly, glancing between them as I stood from my chair. "It's best if you hear it in person."

"Okay then, let's have it."

I nodded over my shoulder. "Do you wanna go outside?"

He headed straight for the doors without word.

"I'll go let them know Kurt's father is here," she told him, kissing Burt on the cheek before she walked away. The clicking of her shoes on the tile rang in my ears.

As we were leaving through the exit, we passed Finn, Kurt's stepbrother. He was in a ratty old OSU sweatshirt, with disheveled hair and bleary eyes like he'd just woken up, but he gave me a tired smile when he saw me.

"Hey, dude," he said, stopping just short of us. "You okay? I know you were the one that uh, that found him and all and I was just wondering…"

"I'm keeping it together," I replied. "Listen, I'll see you inside, okay?"

"Cool." He smiled again, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. "Oh! I've got a sandwich for you in the car. I made mom stop 'cause I was hungry and I figured that you'd be hungry too since, you know, you're a guy and we're always hungry. I didn't know what you liked so I kinda just guessed, but she said you liked ham and cheese and that's what I picked. Even got a cooler and everything."

"Thanks, Finn." I replied, returning his expression.

"Anytime, bro." He turned around too quickly for the automatic doors to respond, nearly walking right into them. He looked sheepish as he stepped back, mumbling a "whoops". He shook his shoulders and once they finally opened, stepped through them and into the ER. He gave us a wave from inside before spotting Carole and heading towards her.

"He hasn't changed a bit," I commented as we continued out, shaking my head with a small laugh. I glanced over to Burt and watched him sit down on one of the benches. "How's he holding up?"

"He's doin' alright. He's always been real light-hearted and stuff, you know, tryin' to cheer us all up. I think he's not really thinkin' about any of this yet, 'cause he hates thinkin' about Kurt and what happened, but he means well."

"I'll bet he's making sure Carole's alright."

"He was a blessing when Kurt left, helpin' her take care of me. He's always been real close with his mom, especially after that. He's always kinda felt like it was his fault since he didn't realize, so he's tried to make up for it. He eventually realized that there was no way of him knowin', but he's been carryin' that blame around with him for seven years. We all have."

"Yeah," I murmured, burying my hands into the pocket of my hoodie.

"Alright, kid. Enough with the small talk. What's really going on?" he finally asked, looking me in the eyes.

"When I tell you, you've got to stay calm, okay? It's a lot to take in and it's gonna be a hell of a shock."

"I can't make that promise," he said. "You know I can't. You just told me that he's in the hospital and I don't have a goddamn clue as to why or what's going on or how you even know in the first place."

I let out a long breath, letting my head fall before I gathered the courage to start re-telling my story for the third time that day. For a half hour, he sat motionless, listening as I described every interaction I'd had with him in the last months – running into him at the coffee shop and then just this morning, when he called. He filled in the blanks and began to connect the dots as I went along, the anger, surprise, and devastation all blending into one expression.

It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

* * *

"God," he said once I was finished. He clenched his fists and brought them to his eyes. "What kind of sick, twisted bastard would do this to my son? To my _child_?"

"I don't know," I murmured. "But I know for a fact that he's going to kick and scratch and fight to go back to whoever he is, so we have to do everything we can to stop that from happening. We can't focus on our anger right now because he needs us to be there for him, whether he wants it or not."

"I know. I'm not lettin' him go back to that person. I won't."

"I don't want him to, but it's gonna be a lot harder than we think getting him to come home with _either_ of us. And the way he reacted when he saw me? He was _terrified_, Burt. He's so scared of whoever this is that he doesn't want to get caught interacting with me and I can't imagine what he'll do when he finds out that everyone else is here too. I'm pretty sure he called me because he was so blinded by how much everything hurt that he would've done anything to stop it, not because he wanted me to be the one to rescue him. We know how Kurt is and I know for a fact that that's the last thing he wants. He's gonna be in a lot of pain and groggy and confused, on top of all of this, so we're gonna have to ease him into it, you know? And we can't exactly force him to leave with us–"

"You think we can't? Watch me."

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "Burt. I know you want to do what's best for him, but he has to _want_ to come home with us. Would I love to throw him over my shoulder and lock him in a room to make sure he doesn't go back to his boyfriend? Of course, if it meant keeping him safe. But I can't do that because I couldn't live the rest of my life knowing that I made him miserable just because I wanted to see him again."

"Could you live the rest of your life knowing that you let him go back to someone like that?" he countered.

I dropped my head into my palm and let my fingers run through my hair. "I don't know what we're supposed to do," I replied. "I don't."

"Well we're just gonna have to figure it out. There's no other option. The first step is making sure he's physically okay and bein' treated. Do you know what's going on with his surgery?"

"They came out a few hours ago and said that they fixed his lung, after Cooper begged them to tell us something, but that he's going to need to stay on oxygen. They're keeping him in the ICU for a couple of days while it heals because there's a high risk of infection or of him catching pneumonia, so they have to make sure everything goes properly. He has three fractured ribs and several others are bruised, so he's gonna have to take it easy for a little bit. They won't know about the concussion until he wakes up and they can check him out, but he should be out for all of today and maybe even a little bit of tomorrow. They said he's gonna be on a lot painkillers and that his body's taking that time to try and fix itself, so to just be patient and wait it out."

"I'm still gonna see him the second I'm allowed to, whether he's awake or not."

"It might actually be best if you go and see if you can now, while we know he won't wake up. I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I think I should break all of this to him gently. He already knows I'm here, so it might be easier if it was just me for the first couple of days. We're gonna have to give him some time to adjust and take everything in, and he might not even _remember_ what happened when he wakes up because of the concussion. I just don't wanna put more stress on him than he can handle," I explained nervously. "There's no guarantee that he'll want to see me either, but maybe he'll be more receptive to someone he's already seen."

There was a silence as he took off his baseball cap to run his hand over his head. He put it back on, sighing. "I think you're right, kid. Even if I don't like it. But I'm not agreein' to anything yet, I wanna know how he reacts after he sees me and then I'll figure out how to handle it."

"I just – I don't know the right way to go about this. I mean, with you and Rach and Carole and Finn and Cooper, it's a lot. He's going to be overwhelmed and I know everyone obviously has questions about why he did what he did, but we have to focus on the now, not the past. At least for the moment, until we can ensure his safety."

"I agree with you," he said again. "But I'm not leaving this hospital until he is."

"Neither am I. And him not wanting to see me _is_ a huge possibility. I'll give him some time after he wakes up until I go talk to him, but we've got to get the ball rolling. We still have to convince him to open up a claim with the police on top of everything else and there's no way in hell he's gonna agree to that without a fight," I stated, shaking my head. "This all depends on him. What happens, where we go from here – it's all in his court."

"That's a whole other battle," Burt told me. "Let's just take it one step at a time, yeah? I've still got to go talk to the doctors so we can figure out how he's gonna recover and all that."

"I'm surprised they told me what they did, honestly, since it's the ICU and it's family only."

"I'll make sure to let them know you're allowed back to see him," he replied with a smile, and then after a second, he turned serious. "Listen, I know it's not easy for you to deal with this either, and I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier, okay? I just didn't understand why you couldn't tell me anything over the phone, but… now I do."

"It's okay, I'd probably be pretty pissed too." I let out a small laugh and then stood. He followed suit, clapping my back and giving me a hug.

* * *

Almost immediately after we went back inside, we were taken into a small room just down the hall, off to the right of the ICU. All of us took our seats as the doctor introduced herself, sticking her hand out for Burt to shake.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Danielle Stevens and I'm the one who's been taking care of Kurt," she said.

"I'm his father, and that's his stepmother and some of his friends," he told her. "How's he doing?"

"Well, he's going to be okay, but he definitely has his fair share of injuries." Everyone let out a sigh of relief as soon as the words left her mouth. "The most urgent issue at hand right now is his left lung. He had what's called pneumothorax, which is a buildup of air in the space between the lung and the chest wall. When his ribs were fractured, they punctured his lung, and as the amount of air between his lung and chest increased, the pressure against his lung caused it to collapse. That prevented his lung from expanding properly when he tried to inhale, which was why he wasn't able to breathe. We sewed up the tear, and thankfully the fractures were fairly small, so there were no complete breaks. We went in with a suction and sucked out the excess air, but he's going to be hooked up to a machine for a day or so that'll keep doing it while his lung heals. We inserted a tube through his mouth and that'll breathe for him until he wakes up, when hopefully we can transfer him to an oxygen machine. He'll be sedated for all of today and probably most of tomorrow to, both so he won't feel anything and so that he can have uninterrupted recovery. Afterwards, he's still gonna have to take it easy and rest for awhile, because his ribs could take anywhere from six to ten weeks for those to mend, depending on how he follows up," she explained. "We can't really do much for rib injuries unfortunately because any compression just makes it harder to breath and raises the risk of infection. We're going to keep him on oxygen for a few days while everything's healing, and hopefully he'll get to a point soon when he can breathe on his own. However, we are concerned about him developing pneumonia from the combination of the ventilator and the weakness of his lung, so we're gonna keep an eye on that as well." She paused, looking at all of us. "Do you guys have any questions so far? I know it's a lot to take in and understand. I know it sounds really scary, but Kurt _will_ be okay, physically."

Burt rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head as he let out a sigh. "What about his concussion?" he asked. "Is there any brain damage?"

"There isn't a way to be positive at this exact moment because he isn't awake, but we don't think it's anything too severe, no. With that being said, there's a definite chance of him having memory lapses, so it may take a while for him to adjust and remember what happened to him. We'll take him in for scans once he's awake to make sure there's not any serious harm done."

"Is it going to be long-term amnesia or just temporary?" I questioned, biting my nail.

"There are two options that I'm considering right now, as far as his amnesia goes. It could either be retrograde or anterograde amnesia. Retrograde amnesia is the loss of memories that occurred right _before_ the accident, and anterograde amnesia is having problems forming new memories _after_ the accident. It should be just temporary, and more likely retrograde, but it could still be three, four, five days or more before he remembers, it just all depends."

"How long will he be here?"

"It's all contingent on how quickly his lung's able to heal and whether or not he gets an infection," she replied. "We are optimistic that he'll make a full recovery, though it will take some time for his ribs to mend. He'll be kept in the ICU for probably about a week, because he's at a high risk of pneumonia and he needs to be on the oxygen machine, but after that he'll be moved back down to the recovery ward for another day or two just to keep an eye on him and make sure things are going as planned. He'll also be on antibiotics and anti-inflammatory painkillers to help with infection prevention, in addition to the sedatives. I'd say he'll be able to go home in about ten days, given that there are no hiccups."

"Do you know what we're supposed to do about all of the police work, or reporting the accident…?" I asked quietly.

"I actually need to speak to his father alone about that," she said, looking to Burt with a serious expression. "Do you mind?"

"Carole and Blaine can stay," he told her, and I sighed in relief, grateful he was allowing me to be involved. Finn, Henley, Charlotte, and Cooper all stood, giving us small, understanding smiles as they exited the room.

"We'll meet you guys back at the waiting room," I murmured, squeezing Rachel's hand before she left, closing the door behind her.

Dr. Stevens turned to look at us delicately, letting out a breath.

"I'm assuming you know how Kurt got his injuries, correct?"

I nodded and then Burt did the same.

"Ma'am?"

"They all filled me in," Carole said, and then she continued.

"I'm not going to lie, we're in a tough situation. I've dealt with cases like this before, and it's not easy. Because there were so many bruises on Kurt's body – some very old and some clearly very new – we think it's a situation of long-term abuse. Normally, when the abuser starts, it's mostly emotional, like telling them what to do or who to hang out with. That's where it all starts, and after they've got their hold on the victim, they move into more dangerous territory – physical violence and sexual abuse."

"Do you know how long Kurt's been with this person?"

"It could be anywhere from a year to several. Because this was such a serious attack, the level of abuse had to have been escalating over the years, and my guess is probably between two or three. Kurt very well could've died if we hadn't gotten there in time, and the aggressor _aimed_ for the spots that would create the most fatal damage – the head and the stomach, where all the vital organs are. The EMT's told us that he was left in his apartment, so this person wasn't concerned with what happened to him, which leads me to believe that death – or at least heavy injury – was his intent. We won't know, obviously, until he wakes up and can speak for himself, but…"

"Oh my god," I mumbled, running my fingers over my cheeks.

"When we were prepping him from surgery, we… found a lot of evidence of forced sexual contact," she murmured, cringing as she tried to explain. "There were a lot of bruises on his inner-thigh area, too, and we don't think this was just a one-time occurrence."

"Jesus Christ," Burt said, and his hands trembled as he fixed his cap. "What can we do? How can we file a report with the police?"

"Unfortunately, it all depends on how far Kurt's willing to take this. That's the difficult part, getting the victims to speak up about what happened to them and go to the authorities. Often, they're either too scared or too blinded by their love for the attacker to do anything, so it just slides. There's not much we can do on our end, because he has to be _willing_ to talk to the police and give a statement. He's an adult, it's his decision and we have to respect that."

"How would you collect the evidence? Is that something you could do now to have on file in case Kurt decides later on to say something?"

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "We would go ahead with a Sexual Assault Forensic Investigation, which is a type of kit we use to gather all of the proof of what happened. We'd get any hair or fluids that could be used to identify the attacker, and we'd swab any areas that he had contact with, like his mouth and anal cavity. We would have to get Kurt's fingernail scrapings and samples of his hair to differentiate between the two, and we'd have to photograph of all of the areas on his body that were harmed, like the bruises, the scars from the surgery, and his face especially. We would also need a detailed account of what happened, but he can't give that until he remembers the accident."

"How long does he have?"

"There's no statute of limitations on reporting the rape and domestic violence, since it's most likely going to be charged as a felony crime. However, it's extremely vital that this get taken care of soon, because the longer he waits, the less likely he is to go through with it and the harder it's going to be to collect the DNA evidence. We can bring in someone for both your family and Kurt to speak to who can more adequately describe the legal processes involved, if you'd like. He's got a lot of options, but at this moment, the most important thing for you to realize is that he needs your support. I can't even begin to describe how emotionally and physically draining this is going to be for him, so he's going to need people by his side."

"How many people are allowed back with him at a time?"

"In the ICU, usually one or two, since there's so much going on in a limited amount of space. He's going to be hooked up to a lot of machines, and I know it looks scary, but it's all for his benefit. We also don't want to overwhelm him in addition to everything else that's he's experiencing, so we try to limit the number of visitors," she told us. "Once he's back in the recovery ward, he can have as many as he'd like – as long as it's a reasonable number, of course. Though in this case, you might want to still try to keep the number as low as possible to keep him calm and at ease."

"We'll keep that in mind. Is there any paperwork I need to fill out as his next of kin?"

"We've got some forms, yes. We can go do that now if you'd like?" she asked, and Burt nodded. "We'll pretty much have a constant watch over him in the ICU until the risk of infection dies down, so if you need anything, I'm sure you'll all be able to find me," she said to Carole and I.

"Thank you for saving Kurt's life, Dr. Stevens," I told her, standing and shaking her hand. "And thank you for anything else you do for him."

"You're certainly welcome," she said, giving me a warm smile. "I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot of you all around here in the next week or two. Call me crazy, but I like to get to know my patients and their families. It helps everyone out in the long run if I'm familiar with the situation and as long as I'm on familiar terms with the family, then I – as well as the patient – feel more at ease. Does anyone need to be added to the visitation list? It's family only as a base, but if there's someone like a significant other or a best friend involved, we can definitely add them with permission."

"Blaine over here, for sure," Burt stated, pointing to me. "And he's got a few friends as well."

"It's no problem at all. Kurt's very lucky to have people like you in his life and I'm glad he won't have to go through this alone." She smiled one more time before turning to Burt. "You can just follow me and I'll take you to where all the paperwork is."

Once they were out of the room, Carole and I followed suit, shutting the door behind us. It echoed in the empty white hallway, sounding final, definitive. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding in, mentally preparing myself for what was to come. I knew this was a completely new game now, one that I had no control or power over.

_ It's like chess_, I told myself. _As_ _long as we make the right moves, we can win. Kurt can _win. _And if not, I can't even think about that._

* * *

**A/N: From this point forward, I'm going to do my best to continue posting weekly, but I can't guarantee it. It'll more likely be every 10ish days, depending on how fast I can get the chapters written. I'm working 7 days a week right now, so bear with me! I'm about caught up to what I had already done, so now I'm working on all of the rest. Let me know what you think?**


	18. Chapter 16

**A/N: Once again, it's a pretty heavy chapter so read at your own caution/comfort level. I tried to get it out faster, but it's clearly something that has to be done right, so I hope you like it! (And by like I mean appreciate… because honestly, this isn't the kind of story someone reads for fun.)**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: Vivid mentions of rape and domestic violence.**

* * *

**Chapter 16 – An Impossible Decision**

_(Kurt &amp; Blaine, March 8__th__ – March 10__th__)_

* * *

"_**There's a phrase, "the elephant in the living room", which purports to describe what it's like to live with a drug addict, an alcoholic, an abuser. People outside such relationships will sometimes ask, "How could you let such a business go on for so many years? Didn't you see the elephant in the living room?" And it's so hard for anyone living in a more normal situation to understand the answer that comes closest to the truth; "I'm sorry, but it was there when I moved in. I didn't know it was an elephant; I thought it was part of the furniture." There comes an aha-moment for some folks – the lucky ones – when they suddenly recognize the difference."**_** – ****Stephen King, The Dark Tower**

* * *

**Monday, March 8****th**** (Day 2) – Kurt**

When I finally woke up, several things happened at once: I choked when I tried to breathe, it took me a minute to realize where I was, and I had absolutely no memory of the accident.

Since I was hooked up to a ventilator that had been breathing for me since my surgery, I couldn't do it on my own and I panicked because essentially, I was fighting it. I reached up to my face to pull the mask off, but my left arm was in a sling and throbbing pains shot up to my shoulder when I lifted it. After I discovered how difficult it was to move (and how excruciating it was), my heart started beating faster in my chest and I squeezed my eyes shut again, digging through my head for any memories of what had happened. For the twenty minutes I sat, thinking so hard it practically hurt, doing my best to learn how to breathe with the tube in my throat. Eventually, I figured out to take slow, gentle breaths and to let the machine guide me, but it was still difficult and uncomfortable.

After I didn't have to focus too much on that anymore, I went back to trying to think, but it was as if a deep fog had settled over my brain and clouded the events of the past several weeks. I was left immobilized and terrified and unable to remember _anything_ from the time surrounding whatever had happened to me. What are you supposed to do when you have days and days just… erased from your memory? Vanished, without a trace? I knew my name and the state I was in and how to multiply and who the president was. I knew the year and my birthday and that I dropped out of Parsons and when I met Sebastian. Simple facts and recollections from years ago were still tucked away safely in the depths of my mind, easily known and summoned. But what I'd done for the last month? How I ended up here? And by whose helping hands? _Why_ I was even here? Not a single ounce in my body had any idea.

Immediately, I knew something must have been wrong with my lungs because every breath in – whether mechanical or otherwise – lit a fire in my chest. Both arms were aching and sore and, once I finally looked at them, littered with deep purple bruises. I realized that I only had about half of my vision since one eye was nearly swelled shut, and when I lightly brought my fingers to my face, the familiar twinge of tender, newly beaten skin greeted me. It was another pain, however, that prodded me to slowly and torturously lift the neck of my gown up and peer underneath it. I couldn't quite place it, only that it felt _lower_, somehow. Inside a ring of dark black, I saw a small row of stitches right about where my lungs would've been. But beyond that, what really caught my attention was my thighs – almost as if they were battered, like I'd decided to punch myself and keep going after I got numb from the force of it. Fingerprints, cuts, and scratches lined with blood were surrounded by a sea of black, just like on my stomach, just like what was on my face. But much, much worse, I knew. So much worse.

And then it hit me.

_Sebastian coming home drunker than I'd ever seen him, leaning against the door frame with anger in his eyes and malice in his curled lips._

_How he accused me of cheating, pinning me to the wall as he told me not to open my mouth._

_The way it felt when he threw me to the ground and kicked and punched and slapped every part of my body that he could reach._

_The feeling of my lungs exploding inside of me, like I was drowning and choking on the air I managed to suck in._

_My chest wanting to collapse in on itself after he continually slammed his feet over my ribcage, screaming words into the empty room but hurling his insults directly towards me._

_Fighting back while I still had the energy, miraculously and unexplainably, shielding myself and allowing my knuckles to connect with his fingers when his hands started gripping my thighs._

_The slick feeling of blood dripping from my nose, my lips, the corner of my eyebrow, and how the taste of it made me wonder if that was the end, if that was the night I was truly and finally going to close my eyes and fade away._

_The moment that he stopped using his fists to hurt me and started using something eviler and far, far more painful, something sinister._

_The sound of a belt being undone and a zipper being pulled down._

_Knowing I was too weak to move or to fight back and having to lie there and let the fear wrap around my heart once I realized what was going to happen._

_Him telling me not to scream or struggle, that he'd make it hurt more if I did._

_How he shoved himself inside of me, over and over and over again, and what I felt each time – like I was being ripped apart in more ways than one, like I would rather die than have to live a single agonizing second longer._

_Blacking out soon after he began to touch me._

_And then I remembered calling Blaine, god knows how many hours later._

It all came rushing into my brain as I started to put the pieces together, my hand clenching the sheets on the bed. One second I had no memory, and then the next I had _all_ of them – fighting in me, pounding on my skull, screaming inside my head to try and be heard.

My chest heaved with the tears building behind my eyes and I tried unsuccessfully to form words, making desperate, muffled noises through the tube in my throat. Once my monitor went off, letting out a succession of harsh, piercing beeping, a nurse came flying into the room.

"Shh, calm down, you're okay," she told me, hurrying over and placing her hands over mine, which were trying to take off the oxygen mask taped to my mouth. "Don't pull at that, we'll get it off, alright? Nod if you can understand me, sweetie." I did as I was told, looking at her with confused, wild eyes. "I know you're scared, but I need you to take shallow breaths so you don't rupture your lung by overworking it." She lightly pressed her palm over my stomach, instructing me to expand my diaphragm only to where her hand was. I followed her directions and shut my eyes, attempting to ignore the whirling thoughts in my head and focus on getting the air into my lungs.

After a few minutes, my breathing was under control and she softly spoke to me.

"Keep doing that, good. Do you know why you're in the hospital, Kurt?" I stared at her, scared to admit the answer that I thought I had put together. She tried again. "Do you remember what happened in the hours before the accident?" she asked, and I reluctantly nodded. "One of your lungs was punctured by a fractured piece of your rib, so it collapsed, which is why it's imperative that you try not to move too much for the next several days. They did surgery on it and you've been asleep for a while, since yesterday morning. We've had you on the ventilator to breathe for you while your lung recovered from the surgery, but we can move you to the oxygen machine so you'll be able to speak in a little bit. We think your head was hit pretty hard, so we're gonna take you in for some scans just to check that there isn't any major trauma, okay?" She talked slowly and carefully, looking at me to make sure I understood what she was saying. I nodded my head again.

She went out to alert a doctor and then they both came in, gathering wires and machines as they gently started to roll my bed out of the room.

* * *

Several hours later – after having the tube taken out, being put on an oxygen machine with a nasal cannula that hooked around my ears and went under my nose, getting brain scans, and then falling asleep again out of pure exhaustion – I awoke to darkness.

"How are you feeling, Kurt?" I heard a kind voice say, starting me. I hadn't realized she was there. She finished scribbling on my chart, dropping it and letting it slide back into its holder on the wall before turning back to me.

"I'm really sore," I answered in a raspy voice, blinking sleepily at her.

"Yeah, I'll bet," she said sadly, pulling up a chair next to my bed. "Do you remember everything the doctors told you before you fell asleep again, about all of your injuries?" I nodded. "That's good, it means that you shouldn't have too hard a time being able to remember any new information. You told them that you were able to remember what happened, is that right?" Reluctantly, I nodded again. "Is it okay if I ask you something, Kurt?"

"Yeah…" I replied, hesitant to agree but curious as to what she would say.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Being drugged on painkillers, I thought this was funny, so I chuckled.

"No, no girlfriend."

"Any significant other?" Wary of the direction she was headed and knowing she was serious, I let my laughter quiet and didn't answer. "Do you have a boyfriend, Kurt?" Another small nod. "How long have you guys been together?"

"Four and a half years."

"Do you love him?"

My response was automatic – instinctual, almost. "Yes."

Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. "Yeah, I guess you do. I loved my boyfriend too, you know. His name was Jeremy. I met him about… gosh, almost six years ago now. He was the most charming man I'd ever met – sweet, funny, caring. Until one day, he wasn't anymore." I froze and held my breath. "He started caring who I hung out with, where I went, the clothes I wore. And he just, I don't know, he just seemed… possessive. He was always near me or touching me, and then it started escalating so quickly, before I even knew what was happening. After we'd been together for about a year, he hit me for the first time." I sat quietly with my head down, eyes pointedly staring at my chest as fear welled up in me and tears burned in my throat. " Right after he did it, he started apologizing and kissing my face and holding me, swearing that he'd never do it again and that he'd just gotten out of hand. And I believed him, because I loved him. But then about a month later, it happened again, over a little argument about going out shopping with one of my friends. I just let it keep happening, over and over, because I thought I would be able to change him. He would leave bruises on my wrists from gripping them too hard or red marks on my cheeks from slapping me and it got to a point where I thought I was at fault for his anger. He blamed me for a lot, so I blamed me, too. About two years into our relationship, I was scared to be around him. We lived together at that point, so it was hard to avoid him, but I fell asleep on the couch a lot and he didn't like that because it meant that we didn't have sex."

She paused for a few moments and I sucked in a small breath, heart hammering painfully under my ribcage. I knew where this story was going. Of course I did.

"So he put something in my drink one night. He'd been nicer for a few days and I was starting to feel okay around him again, so I agreed to go out to dinner with him. He probably did it while I was in the bathroom or when I wasn't looking, but by the time we got home, I could barely even stand. He took me to our room and I blacked out and I woke up the next morning and I was bleeding. He raped me."

Her confession seemed to echo in the silence of the room and I wondered how she could say it so matter-of-factly, so calmly. So strongly. I felt something drop onto my hands (which were clenched tightly on my lap) and when I realized that I was crying, I reached my fingers up to quickly wipe under my eyes.

"Kurt," she began gently, "I've been there. I know the signs."

"Please stop," I replied shakily, still not looking at her.

"You can tell me, it's okay. I promise it's okay."

"You don't know anything about him."

"I know enough."

"He's just stressed," I said. "And he's got a short temper."

"So that's an excuse?" I was quiet. "Listen to me. Nothing is ever, _ever_ an excuse to hit you or hurt you. It doesn't matter if he's tired, or stressed, or angry, he should _never_ hit you."

"And if I deserved it?" I questioned thickly, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"What do you think you did that was so bad it justifies him doing that to you? Forgetting to call? Staying out late? Defending yourself?" She stopped for a second, letting out a breath. "Honey, can you look at me, please?" For reasons I didn't understand, I did. And once her eyes met mine, that was it. My shoulders shook as I started to cry, causing pain to shoot down my left arm, and my chest burned and clenched tightly as I fought to catch my breath. I brought my trembling hand to my mouth, shaking my head.

"I can't – I can't do this," I got out, breathing heavily.

"Calm down, it's okay. You're gonna be okay. Take small breaths, alright? Shh, you're gonna hurt yourself." Again, she placed her hand over my stomach and instructed me to breathe to where her palm was. I did as she told me if only for the sheer fact that crying with fractured ribs and a lung that just had surgery was one of the most painful things I'd experienced in my life. After a few minutes of these exercises, I laid back against the pillows, exhausted.

"I know you don't wanna talk about this, but I have something I need to ask you and we're running out of time, so just listen, okay?" I sighed, trying to focus on my breathing. I ignored the dread creeping into my mind and the fear pulsing through my veins. "Before we can proceed any further, I want you to know something. What happened to you is _not_ your fault. It never has been and it never will be, because you did nothing wrong. No matter how many times he told you it was or blamed you, you were never at fault. Especially not for his anger or his violence. I know you think you deserved it, but you didn't. You're worth so much more than that. Okay? And you probably don't believe me, because it took me months to finally understand that, but I'm telling it to you now in hopes that you'll learn from my mistakes. I never pressed charges against Jeremy, so he got away. For two years, I let him belittle me and control me and abuse me and take advantage of me, but when he drugged me and then had sex with me, that was the last straw. I called my mom and she helped me get out. But I never went to the police. I was too afraid, and by the time I was strong enough to do it, it was too late to collect any of the vital evidence that would've been needed to prosecute him in court. It's my biggest regret in life, because I let him walk away to do the same thing to another girl."

"What are you asking me?" I said quietly, looking at the bed.

"We can perform a Sexual Assault Forensic Exam, where we collect any evidence of what he did, but the longer you wait, the chance of getting his DNA decreases. A forensic examiner who has specialized training will collect any blood, urine, and hair samples, nail scrapings, and document any injuries you have. Your clothes and garments are stored already, if you decide to go through with this. I'm required to let you know that it is available, so take some time to think about it, okay? Under no circumstances am I forcing you or telling you what to do. I want you to do what's best for you. I'm just letting you know that this is an option available, and that if you need somebody to talk to we can bring someone in. If you want more information on the legalities of it all or what the next step is, or if you want to give a report or press charges, we can bring an officer in to help answer your questions. You aren't alone, Kurt. There are people here who can help you. And I will always be here to talk to you, if you want. I've been there and I know how hard it can be."

With that, she patted my hand and then left the room, giving me time to think. Her words rang in my ears.

_I'm not alone. There are people that can help me._

I sat for two hours that night, wrapping myself up so tight in my thoughts that I got nauseous. I'd never been more terrified of anything in my entire life. If I went through with this, I would have to admit to everyone, including myself, that I was the victim of domestic violence and sexual assault. I couldn't brush it under the rug or force it out of my mind or pretend like it wasn't happening; it would be real. If I wanted to get out, if I wanted Sebastian to be punished for what he'd done to me, I had to go through with this. If I didn't, I could just walk out of the hospital and go right back to him and pretend that none of this ever happened. I was an adult, it wasn't like anyone could stop me.

But was that what I really wanted? To go back to him? To the abuse, the rules, the frightened nights, wondering if he would come home and want me or if he would rather have my body? I didn't know. I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know if I would be able to go to the police and be the one to turn him in. I loved him – or so I thought. Could I really just… flip a switch and have it all be over? Was it really that simple?

No, I decided. It wasn't. It would never be simple. Because I was in love with a monster and I didn't know why. Because I'd stayed with him for so many years, too many years. Because I didn't think that I would be able to just leave him like that. Because I still believed that I deserved most of what he did to me – maybe not all, but a lot of it. Because I would have nowhere to go, should I decide to leave. Because I was anorexic and a self-harmer when given the tools and scared of my own shadow and the footsteps behind me. Because if I got out, it would take me years and years to shed this skin and create a new life for myself, if it was even possible. Because I was so utterly and completely petrified that it made the blood freeze in my veins and my heart skip a hundred beats. Because I didn't know if I was strong enough to make this choice.

_ And you probably don't believe me, because it took me months to finally understand that, but I'm telling it to you now in hopes that you'll learn from my mistakes._

_ It's my biggest regret in life, because I let him walk away to do the same thing to another girl._

I asked myself if I would regret not doing this in ten years and I had three answers: If I was dead, then no, it wouldn't matter. If I was with Sebastian, I probably wouldn't either, not all the time, because things would go back to normal and I would find a way to handle it. But if I did get out, whether I was by myself or with someone else, I would always wonder where he was and if he had gotten to some other boy and why I let him get away with doing it to me.

So I called the nurse back and I asked her name. She said it was Vanessa and I told her that I wanted to go through with the kit. I didn't know if I was going to press charges, but I wasn't going to take that option away from myself. I'd had too many choices taken away from me already.

* * *

The exam took nearly three hours and it was one of the most humiliating experiences I ever went through. I won't reveal the details of what happened, because it's something private and it deserves to stay that way, but I was exhausted and strung out and worn thin by the time it was over.

But I still did it. For the first time in almost three years, I did something for myself. It was equally as terrifying as it was liberating.

* * *

**Blaine**

Late on the second night, Burt finally let me in to see Kurt. He'd been doing tests and scans for a few hours, so all of the movement exhausted him and they gave him some sedatives to help him sleep better. And because he would be asleep, we both figured that was the best time for me to go in and see him, when he wouldn't be stressed out about my being there. He'd been unconscious for most of his time at the hospital, so neither of us had seen him awake yet.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into his room was the amount of _wires_ he was hooked up to. There was a whole tangled mess of them running under this hospital gown – connected to his heart, his finger, his arm. They crowded around the side of his bed and the floor, and there were dozens of medical screens and stands behind him to help keep track of his vitals. There was a small mask over his mouth supplying him with oxygen (which I assumed they switched out with his cannula at night to make it easier for him to breathe while he slept) so I heard the loud, steady beep of the monitor – giving me proof that he was alive when he looked so lifeless. There were needles taped to the top of his hand and to the inside crook of his elbow, which I assumed was where they would inject his medicine. My eyes went to his wrist and I could still see the finger-shaped marks, peeking out from behind his medical bracelet.

And then I looked at his face. The bruises on his cheekbones and socket seemed to have only gotten worse, causing his entire right eye to be swollen shut. There was purple and red blossoming across his skin, cuts on forehead, and deep splits in his lips, making him nearly unrecognizable. I watched Kurt's chest rise and fall somewhat evenly, little puffs of air escaping from his mouth every few seconds.

"God, Kurt," I said quietly. "We always seem to end up here."

I didn't know where we would all go from there – if he would leave his boyfriend or welcome us back into his life or get help for himself – but as I sat in the almost-silence of the room, I hoped that he would be okay. Not just physically, because those wounds would heal eventually. But emotionally. I of all people knew how hard it was to process and deal with trauma and that it could take years before he even began to feel alright again. I may have gone through a different type of abuse, but it was abuse nonetheless. From a parent, a stranger, a boyfriend – it's all the same, in the end. It bleeds the same, it hurts the same, it leaves the same scars. I knew there wasn't much any of us could do for him, not until he came to terms with what happened and wanted to accept our help. If he left, if he went to the police – that was up to him. And unfortunately, he didn't have much time to decide on either. Within the next several days, his life could drastically change if he made the right decision. But just because you get out doesn't mean things get better instantaneously; I learned that. You're not being hit or having vicious words thrown at you, but maybe you just start doing it to yourself instead. It takes a long time to discover how to love yourself again after you go through something like that and it's not easy. And we could all be there to guide him, if he let us, but there are just some walks you have to take alone.

* * *

**Tuesday, March 9****th**** (Day 3) – Kurt**

The next day, I woke up in mid-afternoon because I'd been up so late the night before. I may have had a dreamless sleep, but amidst the foggy haze in my brain were a million questions, whirling around my head.

But I wasn't alone like I expected. Sitting in a chair right next to my bed, his head asleep on the mattress, was my father. Whom I hadn't seen in almost seven years. Whom I left without saying goodbye. Immediately, my eyes went wide and my heart stuttered in my chest as my breath became short. Fear – mixed with astonishment, longing, love, and a range of so many other emotions – tightened in my chest, paralyzing me. How was I supposed to face him after what I'd done? How would he react? I knew that we'd lost a lot of our bond in the years after my mom died, but we had started to get it back before I left and I remembered how much it had meant to me to finally have him back in my life. I learned how important he was to me after finding out how hard it was to try and forget him.

I'd had no idea who, if anyone, was in the waiting room for me. I knew that I'd called Blaine (and I should've known that he would tell my family, of course he would), but he hadn't shown up since that first morning and I had no desire to bring it up to any of the nurses or doctors. The prospect of seeing him again was horrifying after how it went the first time, but the thought of him seeing me like _this_? Of _anyone_ seeing me like this? It was out of the question. There was a reason I disappeared from all of their lives so long ago: I was tired of hurting all of them, of inadvertently forcing their lives to revolve around me and my sickness. And now my sickness was still there, but it had manifested and grown into a completely new beast, something seemingly untamable. Having them there for all of that, with their watchful stares and frantic hugs and demanding voices, it would be too much. I needed room to stop and think about what _I_ wanted and what _I_ needed, not to be crowded with an angry, desperate family of abandoned people searching for answers. Because if he was there, that meant that Carole and Finn were too, and I knew Blaine wouldn't be able to do this without Cooper and probably Rachel or any of the other friends and people that had come into his life in the last almost-decade since I'd really known him. Having to see all of them meant having to explain what I did and why I did it, even if it was something they would never understand. And it was scary – just like everything seemed to be these days.

I took a slow breathe to try and clear my mind and think of a game plan, but it must've woken him because his head flew up and looked around wildly before settling on me.

"Kurt," he whispered, and then in mere seconds, he broke down. His hand found mine and gripped it, squeezing tight. I let out a loud wince and through his tears, he let go of my hand and said, "I'm sorry, buddy, I'm so sorry." I didn't know if he was apologizing for hurting my hand or for the situation I was in or for what I went through in high school, but I supposed it was all different parts of one whole, anyways. Everything in my life was an unfortunate connection with unfortunate consequences. "What happened to you, Kurt? Who did this?"

I sat, still frozen in my shock and fear.

"I–"

"I love you, Kurt," he told me fiercely, looking me in the eyes. "No matter what."

And with those words, a damn broke inside me. Tears that I hadn't felt gathering started rolling down my cheeks, warm and fast, and I brought a hand to my mouth.

"Dad," I choked out, shaking my head. "Daddy I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, buddy, it's okay. It's gonna be okay." With his help, I sat up carefully and then wrapped my arms around him.

I don't know how long we sat like that, reunited father and son after so many years spent apart. He put his hand on the back of my head, which was pillowed on his chest, murmuring to me that I was going to be alright, that we would figure it out, that I wasn't alone. My tears weren't a raging, hysterical sob; no, they were simply a silent and broken and terrified resignation. They leaked out of the corners of my eyes and dripped onto his shirt, almost methodically, and I could feel the panic well up in me once again. My old life and my new life were mixing in a way that I never expected and I wasn't prepared. For more than one reason, it felt off-putting to have my father comforting me over, essentially, Sebastian. We'd never had a very touchy relationship, if only because of the fact that I felt uncomfortable with most people. Blaine had been the one to change that, but still, he had usually been one of the only people to ever physically comfort me. It was even worse because he didn't know the extent of the situation or much of anything, really. I was sure that he had a loose idea, because the doctors probably filled him in on what they guessed happened, but he didn't _know_.

"You have to tell me what happened or I can't help you," he murmured when I finally pulled out of his grasp.

I shook my head, looking away from him. My fingers trembled against the blanket.

"Kurt, please." His voice cracked and I knew he was desperate to help me, but there was nothing he could have done for me. The damage, as they say, had already been done.

"I – I can't."

"You have to let us help you, Kurt. I think I know what happened but I need to hear it from you and we have to go talk to somebody–"

"Stop," I choked out, squeezing my eyes shut. "Stop. Please."

_You don't know what it's like. You haven't been here and you aren't here and you'll probably never be here, and if you were you would know that it's not that easy and that it feels like all of the cracks in me will spread and surround me until I can't breathe if I utter a word about him or what he did and that I can still feel the warring emotions inside me, fighting for him and against him and I'm just so tired and I need it all to stop._

I swallowed down the lump in my throat, taking in slow breaths and counting to ten because I could feel the rise of tears again. I wondered if I was always going to be as fragile as I felt in that moment. My body ached, because crying only served to worsen the deep pain in my chest and abdomen as both my lung and ribs tried to heal. Nearly every part of my skin was in various states of bruising – black, purple, green, yellow – and I couldn't even imagine what my face looked like as it tried to mend itself among the swelling. My shoulder burned and my arm was in a sling, and even the slightest of tasks left my breathless. I was frail. I was feeble. I could barely sit up by myself, but _emotionally_? I was far, far weaker.

* * *

**Wednesday, March 10****th**** (Day 4) – Blaine**

In all of the shock and anger I'd experienced when I looked up and saw Kurt standing in front of me by that coffee house, I'd forgotten how good it felt to do just that – to stand by him and be in his presence. And maybe the right word wasn't even good, exactly, but… comforting. It was nice, I realized, because it reminded me of so many wonderful moments that I'd forced myself to try and forget. With him held some of the most incredible days and seeing him again brought all of them back, after I let my initial emotions fade. Though there was pain – loads and loads of it – there was also beauty in what we used to be. The night Kurt and I had his house to ourselves, for example is one of my fondest memories: we made dinner and watched the notebook and we soaked in each other's closeness and then I took the can of whipped cream that we were using on our dessert and I chased him around the house with it and then somehow we ended up in a tangled mess of limbs and kisses and pants, but it all felt so _right_. It felt like pure, unadulterated happiness. I had many of those moments with him and I rarely got the chance to reflect on them because of how we'd ended.

As I sat in that chair next to his hospital bed, I would have given anything to take us both back to such simpler times. When had we gotten so grown up? When had things become so _messed_ up? I guessed that somewhere along the way in the last seven years, it had happened and I just hadn't noticed it. I didn't feel much older. I knew that with the amount of pain I'd survived and the fact that I was nearly twenty-four, I was supposed to, but I didn't. Not really. Because when I listened to the slow rise and fall of his chest, eyes scanning over the deep purple bruises lined in yellow on his skin, I felt like a small child all over again, wishing someone could make it better. Like so many times before, I didn't have an answer and I hated that. I didn't like not having a plan. During therapy, I learned how to find a solution to a problem and fix it, but there was no "solution" here. There was only taking it one day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time until it was all over and he could breathe again. Until we all could.

I hadn't been in to see him since the first time because yesterday had been the day that Kurt had finally been awake when Burt was in the room. He hadn't told us much – he was too choked up to – but it didn't take a lot to guess what had happened. When he left, almost six hours after he went in, Kurt had long been asleep, overcome by exhaustion. I'm sure there was a lot of "what happened?" and "let me help you", but I was also sure that it was probably to no avail. It was too soon for Kurt to talk about, especially given the nature of his injuries. Talking for long periods of time must've hurt, so crying for any amount of time had to have been unbearable. It had taken me years and years to truly and honestly open up about what had happened to me and I knew that for Kurt, it would most likely be no different. As unhealthy and unproductive and terrible as it was, it was just how we coped. If he was one of the lucky ones, he would see someone and get it all out and cleanse himself of the poison, but even then it could take a year or more – and that's only if he was someone who experienced emotions and pain quickly before moving on. And I knew that that wasn't who he was.

I wondered if Kurt would be awake when I was there, and the thought was terrifying. I went to see him in the early hours of the morning, hoping he wouldn't wake until later, but after about a half hour, he let out a groan when he shifted. His eyelids fluttered open and he immediately looked down towards his stomach, letting his fingers lightly touch the fabric around it. I watched anxiously from my chair, hoping he hadn't hurt himself. And when he finally did notice me, his wide, frightened eyes met mine.

I gave him a sad smile. "Hi."

"You're still here," he said breathlessly after a stretch of silence.

"…Yeah, I guess I am."

"Why."

I ran my fingers through my hair, taken aback. It sounded just as accusatory as it did shocked. "I don't – I don't know."

He took small, even breaths, shutting his eyes. We were both quiet for a long while.

"Distract me," he asked after nearly ten minutes, still not looking at me. _So we're not talking about this, _I thought to myself. _You called me after nearly being beaten to death by your abusive boyfriend and I haven't seen you in seven years and you have a whole group of people in the waiting room wanting to see you and I didn't realize how much _I _needed to see you again and it's awkward between us and I don't really care because you're here and alive, barely, but we're not talking about any of that. _But still, I understood that just simply thinking about it all was probably exhausting him and he had too much time on his hands so all he had _done_ was think about what happened. I got it. I had been there. "Talk about something. Anything."

"O-okay," I agreed, wracking my brain to find something to talk about. My life was off-limits, because it mostly consisted of the album (which would take too much explaining and also a good portion of the songs were about him) and my self-made family (which would remind him of the past). Current events were probably also off-limits, because I didn't know how much he was aware of the world or present in its happenings. "Books," I said suddenly. "I can talk about books?"

He shyly nodded his head, so I started talking.

"About a year ago, I read this book called The Fault In Our Stars," I began. "It's about two kids that have cancer, but it's not really about cancer. Hazel, who had thyroid originally before it spread to her lungs, met Gus, who had Osteosarcoma and lost his leg, met at a support group. It's hard to explain why it's so captivating, which sounds incredibly cheesy, but it just _is. _It starts off with Hazel at a doctor's appointment…"

* * *

**Kurt**

Blaine was there when I woke up. I had to stop for a minute and breathe because I was so freaked out.

I asked why he was still there, and I didn't know if I was supposed to be happy to see him or not. Even though I knew I called him, I didn't really remember much about it. He was going to make everything so much more complicated, because I knew that he would want answers that I couldn't give him. He was going to want to know what happened, like my dad. He was going to want to help me, because if I knew him like I think I did, that's just who he was. And given the fact that he sat and rattled off book summaries and plots for the better part of an hour just because I asked him to take my mind off of everything, I doubt he'd changed.

But I couldn't talk about any of that. I couldn't. Not even to Vanessa, who came in to check on me a few times. The words literally felt like they got stuck in my throat whenever I tried to say them out loud and I was terrified of what happened once I finally did utter them. As long as they stay tucked inside of me, away from the police and the people who used to be my family and the sympathetic nurses who glanced at me sadly, then nothing had to change. There was no proof of anything, technically. I went through with the kit, but I refused to give my description of what had happened that night, so they had nothing unless I give it to them. Was I supposed to give it to them?

Blaine and my dad and everyone in the waiting room – they just didn't _understand_. They couldn't wrap their minds around why I had stayed with him for so long and why making the decision to go to the police was so difficult and painful. And maybe even I could never truly understand why I hadn't gotten out sooner, because it seems like there's such a simple answer: if someone hurts you, you get away. That's what we're always told, isn't it? But there's one part they always fail to tell you, and that's the fact that you might love the person who's hurting you. Masochistic? Absolutely. But truthful? Yes, to an extent. You don't love him when he's hurting you, you love him on the rare days that he's who he was when you fell in love with him. My relationship with him was a continual reply of "it's complicated", but weren't all relationships?

I had no one to help me make this decision, because everyone's stance on it was obvious: I talk to the police, I turn Sebastian in, I get out, I get help, I hopefully live happily ever after someday when this was all over. I knew that's what they wanted. But is that what _I_ wanted? Not even that, was I _strong_ enough to do it? It had all happened so quickly, and I knew in the beginning I had always dreamt of being given the opportunity to get out, but now that it was sitting right in front of me, I didn't know if I would take it. I just didn't know.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think? (Also to those of you who comment regularly – you know who you are – I appreciate that more than you'll ever know. It makes me entire day and I may not always reply because I'm not sure if you're all notified when I actually do respond, but I always, always read them, so thank you.)**


	19. Chapter 17

**A/N: Once again, this was a difficult chapter to write and many, many, many hours of research went into it to make it as realistic as possible. This was definitely the hardest chapter in regards to legalities and medical information. I have very little knowledge of police exchanges so I did my best with that, but the medical and legal info should be mostly correct. If I'm wrong, I guess I'm taking some creative liberties. Read at your own caution and comfort level.**

**The Finn/Kurt scene was particularly hard, but I remembered him fondly and with so much love. He'll always make Kurt (and me) smile. **

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: Vivid descriptions of rape and abuse.**

* * *

**Chapter 17: Strike The Match**

_(__March 11__th__, 2019 – March 13__th__, 2019 – Kurt &amp; Blaine__)_

* * *

"_**Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds, but no one can tell me what I'm supposed to do right now. Right now I can't sleep. It's right now that I can't eat. Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence even though I know he's not here. Right now all I seem to do is cry. I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still don't know what to do with all this hurt right now."  
**_**― Nina Guilbeau, Too Many Sisters**

* * *

**Kurt**

I've come to the conclusion that when a child is born, they don't know what wickedness is. They don't know about pain or abuse or what it means to hurt someone the way Sebastian hurt me. They haven't seen the tremors in the hands of those that are terrified of doing the wrong thing, of saying the wrong thing, of not acting how _he_ wants them to act; they haven't felt the heart-pounding, paralyzing fear of hearing the door slam shut at three in the morning, followed by the keys hitting the table and a belt being undone; they haven't yet understood that the world can be cruel and unfair and merciless to you, that it can break you into a hundred tiny little pieces and then do it again just because it can. Babies are pure. They're _taught_ about what it means to suffer and to hurt someone and to _be_ hurt; it's not something that is innate. If all children were contained in a room by themselves, the universe would never again see malice or immorality. It's unfortunate that sometimes things go wrong and you end up with someone like Sebastian. Someone once so innocent and good who eventually grew to do unspeakable things – terrible, awful, evil things. And sometimes there isn't an answer or a reason why. I guess we're supposed to blame the parents and the media for teaching them, but I'm not so sure. If someone commits evil acts, does that make them as a person evil? I didn't know. I still don't.

Was I scared of him? I was. Of _course_ I was. I knew what he was capable of, knew what those slow footsteps to the bedroom lead to, knew how to read his face for even the slightest hint of anger. All too well, I recognized who he had the potential to be. But there was a part of me, no matter how small, that wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I've said before that I didn't believe he was inherently evil, and maybe I'll never know, but I stand by that, I think. I don't know when he turned bad, but it doesn't matter, really. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In my situation, there was no "winning" that people usually associated with "catching the bad guy". Pressing charges against Sebastian in didn't make me feel good, it made me feel guilty. It felt… wrong, somehow. In my mind at that particular point in time, I still believed that there was something in him worth saving, deep inside him in a place that he just wasn't showing me. Because I didn't understand how the boy in Central Park telling me that we all had a past and that he wanted to be there for me had become the same man that put me in the hospital. I didn't want to.

I loved and hated and feared him all in one and I did not yet understand how or why or which side of me would win out. I just knew that I wanted to have options.

* * *

**Thursday, March 11****th ****(Day 5) - Kurt**

After spending nearly four long days thinking about what to do, I finally told Vanessa that I would give a statement to the police. I didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing, only that something in my gut was telling me to at least talk to them. Later that day, they came to talk to me.

"I'm Officer Samantha Taylor," a woman said, stepping into the room and offering me her hand once she sat down. She was probably in her early thirties, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw line that rounded under her chin. Her shoulder-length blonde hair curled in around her face, but I knew she likely dyed it because I could see her brown roots peaking out on the top of her head. She had hazel-brown eyes with a touch of black above and underneath her lid, I noticed. Simple but still obvious. I focused on these details because they were things I could actually _see_, rather than the memories in my head, and it was calming, if only for a moment. It gave me something to do and allowed me to think without really having to put in much effort, like doing your multiplication tables as opposed to derivatives or recursive functions. It occupied my brain so other thoughts couldn't creep in.

But then I had to bring myself back to the present, no matter how much I wanted to run or hide or wish that it wasn't me that this was happening to. I had to be brave.

"Thank you for, um, coming," I replied nervously, falling silent. I'd never liked police and being with Sebastian only ever intensified that dislike. I felt that if I told them what he did, they would twist my words to make him into something he wasn't. What if they forced me to press charges? Or worse, what if they didn't care at all? Perhaps they would say, "Sorry, we can't help you" or "You're lying" or "There isn't enough evidence", when I knew for a fact that there was and that I was telling the truth.

"What's your name?" she asked kindly.

"Kurt," I said, and she nodded.

"I'm here to help you, Kurt. You don't have to be scared, okay? I've dealt with cases like this before."

I knew she was trying to be soothing, but my heart was still beating painfully under my rib cage. I pressed the nubbins to my nose and took a deep breath.

"So you… you know what happened," I guessed, barely audible, still looking away from her.

"I do," she told me gently. "I'm a special type of officer. I'm a part of what's called a Sexual Assault Response Team, and so was the nurse that performed your Sexual Assault Forensic Exam. We're trained to help survivors and to provide them with the safest, most comfortable care and service we possibly can."

"So you're not gonna – you won't tell me that I'm lying?" I asked suddenly, both bitter and hopeful, the familiar feeling of tears burning behind my eyes setting in. "Or that I'm a man and that he was a man and that I should've been stronger?" I didn't expect to cry. Honestly, I didn't. I didn't expect to tell her much, either, but there I was: scattering my deepest fears all over the floor, opening up in a way that even a thousand pages couldn't explain. Those two short sentences told her everything she needed to know.

"Kurt, I know the media and popular culture make it seem as though men can't be victims of domestic violence or sexual assault, but it's not true. I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make sure your voice is heard. I won't let it be silenced because you're a man. It doesn't make a difference to me; you are a survivor and that is the _only_ thing I see."

I brought my hand up to wipe under my eyes, but the tears wouldn't stop. They came like a flood, one after the other, warm and quick and in groups of three or four. I didn't have enough fingers to catch them all, and I wondered if I ever would.

"I just want you to know that you have people on your side. You have people you can talk to; we can have a counselor come in if you'd like, or I know you feel comfortable with Vanessa. She understands what you're going through and she's always there to listen, maybe that would make it a little easier."

She gave me time to cry. She let me sit there for several minutes and battle the emotions warring within me, yelling a dozen different things at once: _Don't say anything._ _Stop crying. Tellhertellhertellher. Why are you turning him in? It's your fault. Let her help you._ My chest was starting to tighten as sharp pains shot through it, so I took in shaky breaths and tried to focus on regaining my breathing. _In, out,_ I thought, listening to the thrum of the machine as it brought oxygen to my lungs. Eventually, I looked up again.

"Do you need more time? It's okay if you do, I understand how difficult this is."

"No – No, I just need to get this over with," I said, and my voice was scratchy. I cleared my throat, shaking my head. _Get yourself together, Kurt. Come on. _I adjusted my arm in the sling. "I… have some questions about how this whole process works."

"Okay, what kind of questions? Anything specific, or do you want me to explain the legalities of it all?"

"The legalities."

"First, it starts off with you giving this statement. The common misconception is that when you file a report, charges are immediately pressed, but that isn't the case. I'll ask you some questions and you'll fill them out on a sheet, and you'll explain everything that happened so we can get as many details as possible if you decide to pursue the charges. If you haven't decided what you want to do yet, that's perfectly alright, you have time. We'll keep it on file and depending on the crime, you have until the statute of limitations is up – in this situation, it's five years for the assault but rape has no statute of limitations," she explained, and the blood raced faster in my veins the more she continued to talk. As she spoke, I truly began to realize just how real this all was. It was happening. But were these options for freedom? Or was it all just one big obstacle, a hitch in my life before I went back to him? "Your report will go to the prosecutor's office, where it'll be looked over to determine whether there is enough information to persecute the attacker. If there is, an arrest warrant will be issued."

"What happens – a-after he's arrested, what happens?" I asked unsteadily, ignoring the fear growing in my heart.

"After he's arrested, he has forty-eight hours to be charged or he has to legally be let go. Once he's charged with a crime, he'll go to an arraignment. That's where he'll have his charges read to him by a judge and be provided an attorney if he can't afford one. Plea deals and bail can also be offered here, and he can state his innocence or confess to his guilt, if he chooses to. Then he'll have rounds of preliminary hearings where prosecution presents evidence to a judge to prove that there is enough for it to go to trial. If a plea bargain is offered, he will accept it at one of these hearings and then he'll be sentenced. If not, then the case will go to trial."

"Will I have to testify?" I swallowed hard, sick to my stomach.

"In most cases," she began lightly, "yes, you will. You will be called on by the prosecutor to tell the court what happened, which will strengthen your case, and you will also be cross-examined by the defense. Unfortunately, there simply isn't a way around it. Depending on the judge, there may be a way around actually having to physically appear in front of your attacker, but you will most likely have to testify one way or another, unless he pleads guilty."

I let out a long breath, squeezing my eyes shut. With them still closed, I asked, "What would his charges be?"

"If he is fairly and correctly charged, probably First Degree Assault and First Degree Rape. The sentence is five to twenty-five years on both."

"What if he gets bail?"

"In most cases like this, the judge doesn't give the assailant bail. And if he does, or even if you don't want to press charges on this case yet, you can get what's called a Temporary Order of Protection, which prohibits your attacker from contacting you or being within so many feet of you. If you're dealing with trials and such, it usually lasts from one court date to another. But if you want one for right when you get out of the hospital or during the time that you're deciding what you want to do, the length of the Order can vary."

I nodded my head, trying to process the information and stay calm. I could not cry again. I had to be strong.

"Do you have any other questions before we get started with the report?"

"I don't think so," I replied nervously, my free hand clenching on the bed.

"It's okay, Kurt. Take as much time as you need, alright? There's no rush." She pulled out a clipboard, a stack of paper, and a pen. "Are you left handed?" she asked, referring to my sling.

"No, I should be good to write," I told her, and she handed everything to me.

"First, I need your full name, the attacker's full name, and both of your addresses if possible," she began. After that, she asked me where the assault happened, the date, and the time – and that's when I knew that I was about to admit what had happened to me. Out loud. To myself and to this stranger, no matter how reassuring she was. But I kept going, ignoring the growing dread in the pit of my stomach.

When I was done filling out the basics, there were dozens of rows of lines, indicating that I was to explain the details of the incident. I took a slow, careful breath in, shut my eyes, and did my best to shove the fear deep down into a place that he could not reach. I began to write.

* * *

It took me an hour.

I had to stop almost a dozen times to catch my breath and wait for the shaking in my hand to subside. I started crying four times. In sixty minutes, I was reduced to nothing more than what I had written down on that blank piece of paper. I was the bruises that Sebastian left on my skin; I was how he pinned me to the ground and kept me there with his legs; I was how he used his hands to quiet me, by slapping and punching and hitting every part of my body; I was how he peeled my clothes off of me as I fought him and the way he looked at me with something feral in his eyes as he took off his own; I was I was the way he forced himself inside me, the way he took advantage of me, the way he used me. I was the nothing more than what he had stolen from me.

I grasped the pen tightly in my hand, so hard that my knuckles were turning white. I dropped it, running my trembling hand through my hair.

"I need you to read over your statement, make any corrections that you need to, and then you can sign it at the bottom," she told me gently. I signed without bothering to check it. I knew what I wrote was accurate; I didn't need to read it again. I didn't know if I could, honestly.

I shoved everything away from me the second I finished the "l" in my last name, needing to get rid of it. I couldn't stand to see the confession that I had written for a single second longer because it felt like I would be sick, like I would feel the way the heat licked up my lungs again, like my heart would hammer right through my chest and into the air. The papers were poison to me – the words sinking into my skin, infecting my veins and curling into my mind:_ hepinnedmedownandtookmyclothesoffandthenhespreadmylegsandusedhishandsto– itriedtogethimtostopbutthenhetwistedmyshoulder–_

I shook my head, trying to force the thoughts out of my mind. I squeezed my hand into a fist, but it still shook. She handed me a small card with her name, the police department she worked for, and a phone number on it.

"If you need something added to your statement, just contact this number. You can call once you've decided what you want to do. There's no rush on this, Kurt. Let yourself physically heal, and then you can think about what you want. This isn't an easy decision, I know you know that, and I just want to make sure that you're going to be okay with whatever you decide."

Numbly, I nodded, quickly shaking my head. My eyes were shut as I fought tears for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

_ He raped you and you let him do it. It's your fault._

"Take care, Kurt. Be strong. It's going to be okay, I promise. If you ever need anything, you have my number. If you want to talk to somebody about this, you can talk to any member of the staff and we can get you someone, okay?"

Once she was gone, my shoulder went slack and it was like the wind was knocked out of me. I heaved a breath and then I was sobbing – truly and completely, not the muffled and stifled cries I'd had earlier. This was deep-rooted, pulled from all the way inside. I let it happen because it was impossible trying to fight something that was doing everything it could to get out of me.

* * *

A few hours later, following my breakdown and after I had slept for several hours, Vanessa came into the room and updated me on my progress.

"We were originally going to start to move you off of the oxygen machine today, that's what we'd planned, but your lung isn't quite as strong as we'd like it to be in order to do that. Not that it isn't healing, it is and there aren't any major hiccups yet, it's just that we want to ensure that you're going to be able to breathe on your own with no problems once we _do_ take you off. In a couple of days, maybe by this weekend, we'll reevaluate where you are."

"How long am I going to have chest pains and trouble breathing?" I asked, wincing.

"It should be gone in about a month, given that you follow your recovery plan. Unfortunately, even after you heal, every once in a while you may feel a pain or that you need to catch your breath if you're doing particularly active things, but hopefully with time, that will fade. You just need to take it easy for a while and let your body heal, okay?"

"Yeah," I replied with a sigh.

"In two weeks, that sling should be off, so that's some good news," she told me, scribbling something down on my chart before dropping it back into its box.

"I hate it. It makes it so hard to sleep and it's uncomfortable. I mean, my arm is sore, but I'd rather not have to wear it. If I can handle a punctured lung and fractured ribs, I can handle my shoulder hurting a little." What I was thinking was: _if I can handle Sebastian, I can handle that. I've experienced much worse._

"I like your attitude, tough guy," she began with a small laugh, "but you need to keep it on. Your ribs, on the other hand, will be a much slower process. Six to ten weeks, leaning more towards about eight or nine. You'll come in for checkups probably every one to two weeks, but majority of the work will be up to you. I want you to continue those deep breathing exercises we've been doing for a little bit when you're home to prevent infection, and then the antibiotics and anti-inflammatories should help with that as well."

"What about the IV?"

"You came in very malnutritioned," she said quietly, and I knew that she understood why. She'd tried to get me to talk to someone about my condition, but I had adamantly refused. My eating disorder was the last thing on my mind at the moment; it was something I'd lived with for years, I was long used to it by then. "And given the surgery and the medication, it provides nutrition, prevents dehydration, and improves blood flow, which is certainly something you need. So you'll still have to keep it in for a little bit." She paused and then switched gears. "Hopefully, tomorrow we can get you out of this room and down into the general ward. They still have oxygen machines down there and because the risk of pneumonia has gone down, you don't really need to be in the ICU anymore. Everything seems to be healing the way it should, but you'll still be here for a couple of days to make sure that nothing else happens and that you don't get an infection or something."

"But you won't be my nurse anymore."

"No, I won't," she told me sadly. "But, that doesn't mean I can't come down during my breaks and check up on you. And that doesn't mean that I can't… you know, give you a way to get in touch with me." She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil, scribbling onto it. "This is my number. Technically, I'm not supposed to do this. But I just – I know how hard it was on me when I didn't have anyone there after it happened. I want you to have a support system, and I can be a part of that, if you'd let me. I understand what you're going through and maybe I can help you heal from it."

I felt overwhelmed with emotions, so I took the paper she handed me and tucked it away. "Thank you. That… it means a lot." I stopped for a second and then looked up. "Can I give you a hug?"

And she knew what a big step that was, because I hadn't hugged anyone that wasn't my father since that night. Touch scared me. It made me uncomfortable and jumpy. But I trusted her and I wanted to be her friend outside of all this. I wanted her to be someone I could confide in about what happened to me once I left the hospital, since she'd been where I was and survived it. She was proof to me that you could carry on and make something of your life, even after it feels like you've had everything stolen from you.

"Of course," she smiled, leaning down and gently wrapping her arms around me. "You can do this, Kurt. You're strong enough. Know that."

At the time, I wasn't so sure if that was true.

* * *

**Friday, March 12****th**** (Day 6) - Kurt**

When I woke up to find Carole mere inches from my bed, I panicked. There was a reason I hadn't really seen anyone (except my dad who came in every single day because he told me that he couldn't bear _not_ seeing me, and Blaine, who had been in a few times to continue telling me plot summaries of various books) since I'd been in the hospital: I just wasn't ready. I felt like my head was already spinning a million miles a minute and trying to come up with reasons and excuses and things to stay would have only stressed me out more. Even though I was being moved into the regular ward later in the day, I was still in a lot of pain – emotionally and physically. I wasn't prepared for interacting with people, especially my family who would predictably have a million questions to ask me. I knew that I couldn't ignore everyone forever, but a part of me wanted to try.

"You're awake," she said softly, sitting up in her chair when she saw me blink my eyes open.

"Yeah," I replied, giving her a weak, hesitant smile.

A wave of silence passed over us, because neither of us knew what to say. We hadn't been extremely close before, but it was to my own fault. I had always pulled away, and even though she tried to form a relationship with me, I'd been in a bad mindset for most of the time she was around. When I was doing better, I didn't want to risk getting hurt so I never allowed her to care for me the way she clearly wanted to. I longed for that motherly love, but she reminded me so much of my own mom that it was painful because my wounds were just too deep.

"How are you, sweetie?" she asked, looking to me with concern. "Do you need me to ask the doctor to bring in any pain meds?"

"No, I – I um, I think I'm okay for now."

She nodded in return and we fell quiet again. I held my breath, waiting for the "where did you go?" and the "why did you leave?", just like my dad had asked, but it never came. And that's who she was: someone who never pushed. Someone who respected boundaries and was gentle and kind and only wanted the best for you even if you weren't her kid. She was a nurse; it was in her nature.

"Listen, Carole," I began nervously, guilt and nervousness twisting in my stomach. "Can we… can we talk?"

"Of course, honey. What do you need?"

"No, I just, I wanted–" I was interrupted by Finn opening the door too loudly, a sandwich in one hand and a container in the other.

"Hey, mom, they didn't have any of those salads you wanted so I just brought–" He stopped when he noticed me. "Kurt!" Immediately, he tossed the box onto the table and ran over to give me a hug. I winced, letting out a harsh breath, and then Carole was on her feet.

"Finn, honey, his ribs," she said, and he pulled away sheepishly.

"Sorry, sorry, I just – wow. I really missed you, man. Like a lot. They wouldn't let me in to see you, so I had to come at night when you were sleeping, but it freaked me out because you still look pretty beat up–"

I cringed at his choice of words, feeling the atmosphere in the room change almost instantly.

"I – that's not how I meant it, Kurt, I'm sorry –"

"Why don't you give Kurt and I some time to talk for a minute, okay? And then I can send you in after, if he wants."

"O-Okay, yeah, um, sure," he replied, turning straight around and heading for the door. He paused before he left. "I'm sorry, Kurt, I didn't –"

"Finn."

He sighed, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

"You know that's not what he meant to say," she started. "Actually, you might not. His heart's in the right place, Kurt. After you left, things were hard on all of us. Finn… he blamed himself, in a way. He didn't take it too well. I know you guys didn't have the best relationship but he honestly did view you as his brother, and I think seeing you like this just scared him."

I breathed in, letting the air out slowly as I processed the information she was telling me. That wasn't something I was aware of.

"I know you don't want to talk about any of that, so I won't bring it up again, but I just wanted you to know–"

"I'm sorry," I blurted out, feeling the tears build behind my eyes as my hands shook in my lap. Her eyes softened and she looked at me sadly. "I'm sorry that I left and I'm sorry that I hurt everyone and I'm sorry that I didn't let you get closer to me, I'm sorry." I brought my fingers to my eyes, willing myself not to cry but knowing (like most times) that I would. So many emotions were hitting me at once – from seeing Carole again, from being told that Finn had taken it hard when I left, from having them still be kind to me after what I'd done – and I could feel the dam breaking inside already. It felt like all I ever wanted to do was cry, and I didn't know if it was because I was so hopped up on pain meds or because of Sebastian or probably both, but I was so sick of it. I was worn out and strung thin from the constant _thinking_ and panicking and pain and I just wanted it all to stop.

"Shh, it's okay, Kurt, it's okay –"

"No it's not!" I said almost hysterically. "It's not and I – I hurt you all and I just – and no one understands why I did it or why I stayed with him and it's so stressful and everyone wants answers that I can't give them and I'm just so scared," I cried. I clenched my teeth, wiping my trembling hands over my cheeks and then bringing them to my mouth.

"Shh, we don't have to talk about any of that, okay? We can talk about it later."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked, shaking my head. "I don't understand. I tore your family apart. I messed up everybody's lives."

"I know that you think that," she began gently, lightly placing her hand on the bed, "but you can't beat yourself up forever. And I won't lie, it was hard. God, it was rough losing you and it took a long time before we were able to find a sense of normalcy. But eventually we did, because we had to. You father was never quite the same, he blamed himself too, but Finn and I did our best to hold him together. And you didn't tear us up, it was just like you took away one of the puzzle pieces, you know? The rest of the puzzle still fit together, but it was never finished. There was always something missing. I couldn't let us fall apart because I knew that you wouldn't want something like that." She stopped and asked if she could hold my hand, so I let her. She looked at my bruised knuckles and let out a breath. "And it's not _my_ family. It's _our_ family, and you were a part of it whether you were right next to us or not. I know that what you did wasn't easy. And I understand why you did it, even if I think it's the farthest thing from the truth. I just wish you would have come to us before you did anything, because maybe it would have turned out differently. Or maybe it wouldn't have, I don't know. I know Blaine was the only one you opened up to in high school, but we would have been there, too. It's all pointless now, it doesn't matter, I just wanted you to know that."

I sat there, clutching her hand and letting the tears slide down my face because there was nothing else I _could_ do. There was so much I could've said, so much I wanted to explain and apologize for, but words failed me. They wouldn't have done justice for what I wanted to tell her, anyways.

"You're strong, Kurt. You wanna know how I know?" All she did was lift my knuckles. "And leaving, that was brave too, in a way. You left your family and friends behind and went out into the world alone. In your head, you chose our well being and happiness over your own. It obviously didn't turn out that way, but that's what you were trying to do. I don't know what your life has been like for the last six years, and maybe I'll never truly understand, but eventually, I'd like to hope that we can sit down and talk about it. Or we don't even have to talk about that, we can talk about something else, but I want to be there for you." I nodded, using my other hand to wipe my cheeks. "There was just so much miscommunication on all of our parts when you left and I don't think we understood how much we all truly loved and needed each other."

"You remind me so much of her," I said suddenly, quietly.

"Your mom?"

"Yeah. She was so… loving. And caring, and accepting of me, and just… a mom, I guess. You're both really good at that."

"I never wanted to take her place, that was never my intention–"

"I know that. I just, I think having a motherly figure in my life again scared me, so I tried hard to actively push it away. And I'm sorry for that. It wasn't fair to you."

"I understand, Kurt, its okay," she replied, squeezing my hand. "Doesn't mean it was any easier, but I do get it. But maybe this time can be different, if you wanted? I know – I know you don't want to think about plans after this and what comes next, but just know that I'm here. That we all are. Okay?"

I nodded again, taking a deep breath as I simultaneously felt a weight taken off my shoulders and a weight placed in my heart. On one hand, maybe I wouldn't have to be alone when I made this decision. Maybe I would have somewhere to stay and maybe they would let me come home and maybe this was like I was getting a second chance to start my life over, away from Sebastian and with people that truly cared about me. It felt like I had a family I could go back to, if I chose that path.

But it also meant that I had a sort of standard to live up to, because they'd only ever known me as Kurt. Now, I was a Kurt that had been with Sebastian for almost five years, someone who was weak and broken and anorexic and a million other things that hadn't been there when I'd left. I hated admitting that, but it was true. I _was_ anorexic. I _was_ terrified of men I didn't know and of the sound of a door closing. I _was_ submissive and jumpy and uncomfortable around people. I _was_ a self-harmer, or at least I knew I probably would be when I was given the opportunity again. I was different – was that something they would be able to handle? I didn't want to let all of those things define me, but I knew they did. He had taken so many things from me that I was nothing more than the shell of a person. If I left, I would have to build myself back up and I was never going to be the same after what he'd done to me. Maybe they wouldn't like that new Me, who would probably be defensive and closed off and weary of everyone's motives. My laugh would be different, the way I walked would be different, how I acted around others would be different. Would they really want to let someone like that back into their life? Someone they had to tiptoe around? Someone they had to get used to?

I didn't know.

* * *

An hour after Carole left, I asked for her to send in Finn. He opened the door slowly, peaking in cautiously.

"Hey, dude."

"Hi," I said, offering him a nervous half-smile. "Are you gonna come in or are you gonna stand in the doorway for the next twenty minutes?"

"No, I, uh, I'll come in," he responded quickly, walking over and awkwardly hovering around my bed.

"You can sit, Finn. I don't bite."

"Right."

Once he finally sat down, we were both quite. Just like with Carole, neither of us knew quite what to say or how to begin after so much time had passed since we'd last seen each other. Eventually, I sighed and started talking.

"I don't want… I don't want things to be weird between us, okay? I know that it'll be hard, because I've been gone and I look pretty bad, but–"

"I shouldn't have said that, Kurt," he cut in. "It came across differently than how I meant it, but I still shouldn't have said it. I know – I know that you can't… that you can't help it, but –"

"I get it, Finn. It's okay."

"It's just, seeing you so hurt scared me. I've wanted to see you again for the last seven years, but I never – this wasn't how I wanted it to be."

"Carole told me how hard it was on you when I left," I said quietly. "And that you blame yourself."

"I'm sorry I didn't know how bad things were," he told me, and I finally met his gaze. "I wish I would have known so I could have helped you."

"It wasn't your fault, Finn, I promise. You can't blame yourself. You can't. Even _Blaine_ didn't know and he was my – we were together then. I didn't want anyone to know because I knew they probably would have changed my mind," I explained. "And I didn't want that."

"Why'd you do it?" he asked, looking at me.

"I just… had to leave. I couldn't stay with you all."

"Why? Was it us? Did we – did we do something wrong, or…"

"No. It was just… it's hard to explain. The only thing I can say is that I just had to get out. That's all."

"That's _all_?" he said, laughing humorlessly. "Kurt. Come on."

"I don't – I don't wanna get into all of that right now," I replied defensively, feeling my pulse begin to rise.

"It was a big deal, Kurt. It changed our lives, yours too," he told me fervently. "It was _hard_ and I feel like I should have done something but none of us knew. And you just ran away to New York, and then it's six years later and some guy put you in the _hospital–"_

"I don't want to talk about Sebastian," I said immediately.

"Is that his name? The guy that did this to you?" He was suddenly angry, on the edge of his seat.

"Finn–"

"_No_, Kurt. Does Burt know? Or mom or Blaine?"

"I just don't want to talk about it so no, no one knows."

"You have to tell someone. We can help you–"

"No you can't. You don't know what he's like."

"Then help us understand," he pleaded. "We want you home, Kurt. We want you _safe_."

"I just – I don't know what I'm going to do yet. I need some time."

"Talk to the police."

"I already did that. It's not that easy, there's a whole process that I'd have to go through if I want to press charges."

"He deserves it! Kurt, you have to turn him in. Look at what he did to you! How long have you been with this guy? Is this the first time this has happened?"

"I said I didn't want to talk about it," I told him sharply, heart beating faster in my chest. I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath to try and calm myself. I was being overwhelmed with the things he was asking, because I was already panicking over it all and I didn't need to be reminded of what I already knew. This was exactly why I didn't want to tell anyone about Sebastian – all they ever had were questions and accusations and demands about what I should do, and they never stopped once to think about how I felt about it all. I was very acutely aware of the fact that there was a simple answer for all of this. I knew I was supposed to turn him in and get out, but that didn't make _doing it_ any easier. That didn't mean I was automatically going to do it just because I should. I needed to think about it first.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"I just… don't want to talk about him," I said after a moment, fiddling with the plastic tube that was connected to the oxygen machine.

"We won't," he promised, and then mumbled, "Hey." I looked up at him. "Where did giraffes come from?"

I rolled my eyes fondly, cracking a small smile because I'd heard this joke a million times before. "Chuck Norris kicked a horse in the face once. And giraffes were born."

And then we just sat, him telling more Chuck Norris jokes and me laying there quietly, offering up responses every now and then. He used to do that back when I was in high school when I'd have particularly rough days, since he wanted to make me feel better and that was the quickest thing he could think of. Even now, when we were both well into adulthood, he was still doing the same thing. That's when I knew he hadn't changed at all, and when I realized that yeah, I definitely had a family I could go back to.

* * *

**Saturday, March 13****th**** (Day 7) - Kurt**

Ever since I'd gotten to the hospital, I'd been waiting for Sebastian to show up. I held my breath every time the door opened or when Vanessa (or any other nurse) said that I had a visitor waiting for me, because I knew it was inevitable: eventually, he would come. And finally, he did, and I wasn't ready.

I was awake when he came in, lying in my bed and contemplating the last few days. My conversations with my father and Carole and Finn and Blaine, what Vanessa and I had talked about, where I wanted to go from here. I knew that I had to make a decision but I didn't know yet what that decision was, and I knew the longer I waited, the harder it would be for me to do what I knew needed to be done.

He opened the door quietly, quickly shutting it behind him and walking up to my bed.

"Kurt? Honey, are you awake?"

My blood froze in my veins and my heart began to pound in my chest. This was not happening. He was not standing in front of me, apologetic and ready to brush it all under the rug and do the same thing that we always did. He was not allowed into my room, there's no way anyone would have let him in when he told them who he was. He was not there, he was not there, he was not there. But he was.

"Kurt? Kurt, come on, look at me." So I did. And all he saw was my swollen, bruised face with a split lip and a deep cut in my forehead; the fear in my eyes and the bags under them, a reminder of painful, sleepless nights, adding more dark-circles to already-blackened skin; the tracks down my cheeks from tears I hadn't realized I'd cried. He saw his work. "Oh my – Kurt. Kurt, baby, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…" He came around to the side of my bed, where I was already shaking my head. My hands trembled under the sheets as I clenched them together, squeezing tight so I would have something to focus on other than the pounding in my head: _He's here he's here he's here._

"No. No. No." All I could do was repeat that one word, over and over, just like I had on that night a week ago. I wanted him to go away, to leave me alone so that I could think and be brave and make this decision without his interference.

"Shh, Kurt, listen, listen," Sebastian said fervently, leaning over my bed and trying to look at me. "I'm sorry, you know I didn't mean for this to happen. You _know_ that."

_Yes you did yes you did yes you did_

He tried putting his hands on my neck to force me to meet his gaze, but I let out a noise and started crying, overcome and surrounded by memories of that night.

_His fingers gripped my collarbone painfully as he laid himself over my almost-naked body, one hand wandering lower down my thigh–_

"I tried going back to the apartment the next morning to see if you were there, but it was taped off and there were police everywhere, so I went up to my sister's for a little bit. I wanted to come see you, Kurt, it just took me so long to find you. I'm here now, okay? I'm here."

_I fought. I screamed. I writhed. I tried to get away, but he got angry. He started slapping the side of my face as he tried to get off in his jeans, but I used my knuckles to try and stop his hands from touching me. Then he started hitting me for real – my thighs, my side, my arms – and I felt the air being knocked from my lungs. I felt the red and black blossoming on my skin._

My breaths were now coming short and fast, sending a sharp pain into my chest. His words were bouncing around my head, echoing, stumbling, colliding with the memories, and I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't.

_ His clothes were off now, discarded in a pile. He was making his way over to me, over to my body, lifting my legs. The weight on my stomach caused me to scream, because I knew something was wrong with my ribs and it was like fire was slowly licking its way through my lungs. His fingers clenched the tops of my thighs, already slippery with blood and cuts, and then I felt the ache inside–_

I screamed. An ear-piercing, blood-curdling, deafening scream.

"Nonononono, stop, _get away from me_," I sobbed, thrashing in my bed. "Don't touch me, get out, get out, get out."

Suddenly, the door flew open and Vanessa came running in, another nurse directly on her heels. Sebastian was out of the room in a flash and she yelled for security and then for the other nurse to get a sedative.

"Kurt! Kurt, Kurt, you're okay. He's gone. You're safe," she kept saying, but I continued crying and screaming, as if I hadn't even heard her. She was trying to steady me but I wouldn't stop moving, too engulfed in hysteria and panic and the memories in my head. When the nurse came back, she must've put something into my IV because after about a minute, I was fighting my drooping eyelids. And soon, I was asleep.

* * *

When I woke up, my head was foggy. I shifted in my bed, groaning when I felt the soreness in my ribs.

"Kurt?" a voice asked softly. "Can you hear me?"

I forced my eyes open to see my father anxiously shifting from foot to foot and Vanessa looking at me with concern. After a second of blank memory, it all came back and my heart monitor started beeping faster.

"Where is he?" I asked, struggling to sit up. Immediately, my father was putting his hand on my chest, gently keeping me down.

"Hey, shh. It's okay. They've got him."

My eyes wide, I shifted my gaze to Vanessa, who nodded.

"We had security on him as soon as he left this room. No one knew who he was or how he got in, but once we heard the screaming we knew something was wrong. That was him, wasn't it?"

I shut my eyes, breathing rapidly in through my mouth. I put a hand under my neck, beginning to get dizzy with the thoughts swirling around my head.

_Oh my god_

_This isn't happening_

_ It's too soon I haven't made a decision yet they can't make me do this_

_ They have him_

_ They have him_

_ They have him_

"Kurt," she said. "I need you to breathe for me, okay? I need you to calm down or you're going to hyperventilate." I opened my eyes, struggling to breathe. "Focus on me, Kurt. In, out. Slowly. In, out." I tried to catch my breath but my heart was thumping uncontrollably in my chest, making it nearly impossible. "We need to know who that man was, Kurt. It's important. We have him in custody but we can't call the police until we have proof. If we let him go, he might try to flee."

"He might – he –" I began airily, numb with shock. _If he runs, I'll be scared for the rest of my life because I won't know where he is. He'll find me. He always does. He'll come back for me. _"I–"

"Breathe, Kurt. It's okay, we have him. He can't get in here."

_I want to get away from him this is my only chance but he'll work his way out of it and he'll hurt me again and–_

"What you want to do is your decision, Kurt. If you don't want to do this, I don't know who that man is. I have no concrete proof and they'll have to let him go." My father spluttered behind her, starting to yell.

"I have the damn proof right in front of me–"

She turned to him. "I am not going to force him to do anything. This is his choice to make, not yours and not mine." She looked back to me, where I was still watching them with wild eyes. "In about a half hour, they're gonna have to let him go unless we call the police. We can leave you alone and you can think about it–"

"Do it," I choked out in a whisper, pressing my shaking hand tight to my mouth. I clenched my teeth as the pressure built in my throat, and within seconds, I felt warmth on my cheeks. "That's the man who – who raped me." And then I was sobbing, stumbling over my words as I tried to get it all out.

"Are you sure?" she asked me.

I nodded quickly, managing a "yes, he's the one".

"It's okay, Kurt. It's gonna be okay," my father kept saying, over and over and over, standing next to my bed. He pressed a kiss to my hair. "I'm so proud of you. It's gonna be okay. He won't ever hurt you again."

I was crying for so many reasons: Because I was actually doing it, I was going to press charges against Sebastian. Because he was going to be locked away and I would never have to see him. Because I felt insurmountable _guilt_ clawing at my insides, suffocating me, telling me that I was to blame for all of this. Because there was a voice in my head, screaming at me that I was betraying him and that he'd never wanted to hurt me and that he loved me, I _knew_ that. Because there was another voice yelling back that all he ever did was hurt me and blame me and he'd put me in the hospital and _look at these bruises_ and my _lung_ and he'd _raped_ me, again and again and again. Because this wasn't the first time. Because five years of abuse was too much to take and this had been the last straw. Because even though some part of me loved him, it wasn't worth having to live through another second of this agonizing pain that had settled deep in me. Because my father was there, trying to comfort me after so many years lost. Because I didn't know where I was going to go or what I was going to do or how I was going to survive him. Because maybe I was finally sticking up for myself. Because maybe this could be a new beginning for me. Because I was so completely and utterly _terrified, _the bone-shaking, blood-racing kind of fear.

It was all just too much to take, so I let my head fall to my chest and cried until my tears ran out and the police came to talk to me.

* * *

Somewhere down the hall or on a floor underneath me, Sebastian was being arrested.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think? (Yes, the days don't match the dates for 2019, but shh it doesn't matter)**


	20. Chapter 18

**A/N: WHY HELLO THERE. Long time no see! I'm so so so so sorry! I won't give you a list of excuses, I'll just tell you that I've been busier than I've ever been in my life and also that applying to college is a bitch.**

**I promise that this story is NOT abandoned, so don't freak out if it gets to be a while before I post. I'm just at another part in the story that needs a ****lot**** of research, and on top of that, I completely changed the way I thought I was going to end the story. So I don't have a total map of where I'm going, which means I need time to plan. Anyways. But yes, I'm going to finish this story.**

**To anyone still reading this, you're a hell of a trooper and I appreciate it! This is one of the longest chapters I've done so far but it was one of the hardest to write. I hope you like it! (You know what I mean.) Also. This chapter is mostly all Kurt and Blaine with a few mentions of other characters, but that's intentional. The other characters' opinions/reactions/etc will be later.**

**There are two songs in this chapter, "Medicine" by Daughter and "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles. The poem in the story is mine. I did the best I could making sure everything matched up and made sense, but if there are any errors, then I'm using my creative license, lol.**

***This is a very dark story that contains consistent and vivid descriptions of self harm. All other warnings (and there are many) will be on a chapter by chapter basis.**

**Chapter warnings: References to domestic violence, rape, panic attacks, potential suicide, and PTSD.**

* * *

**Chapter 18: …And Let Me Burn **

_(__March 14__th__, 2019 – May 27__th__, 2019 – Kurt &amp; Blaine__)_

* * *

"_**All I'd ever wanted was to forget. But even when I thought I had, pieces had kept emerging, like bits of wood floating up to the surface that only hint at the shipwreck below." – **_**Sarah Dessen****, ****Just Listen**

* * *

**March 18****th****, 2019 – Kurt**

The day I was set to be released from the hospital, Blaine came in to see me. He told me that he had a guest room that I could stay in for as long as I needed – _until you can figure things out, _he'd said. With reluctance and apprehension, I accepted his offer. That had been something clawing at the back of my mind, where I'd go, because I knew I didn't have anybody anymore. No friends, no Sebastian, no family that lived in New York to take me in. The family that I'd once had suddenly reappeared in my life and wanted to help me, but in all honesty, I wasn't even sure I wanted their help. Being around so many people at once was stressful for me, especially with all of the tension and unspoken words and history between us all, and I was nervous enough without them.

But regardless of that, I was essentially homeless. I knew I wasn't ready to face mine and Sebastian's apartment yet, so that was out of the question. How could I go back there, with the memories of what he'd done – what I'd _let_ him do – lining every inch of the place? I didn't have a job, so I couldn't even stay in a cheap motel. I had nowhere to go, so I had no choice but to move into Blaine's guest room.

I was shocked and overwhelmed to find out that my father, Finn, and Carole had each taken off three weeks from work to stay in the city with me, but they all insisted that it was final. My father got someone to take over the shop while he was in New York (I couldn't believe that he was still running it after all those years) and I was told that Finn was working there while getting his teaching degree online, so all he had to worry about was doing some class work. Carole was still a nurse at the same hospital, so I wasn't sure how _she_ managed to get that much time off – if she had explained the situation and they gave it to her understandingly, or if she had to beg and promise to work double shifts when she got back. I would have asked, but I didn't think my mouth would be able to form the questions. Every time I tried to talk to them, it's like something got stuck in my throat – guilt, shame, maybe – and the words wouldn't come out. It was too hard to worry about it, so I just stayed quiet.

After Blaine had written his address and given it to Carole to give to our cab driver, he'd gotten in his own cab with Cooper (who I hadn't known was in the city). They all continued talking softly around me, asking me questions and coming up with a plan for the next few weeks. Eventually, their voices drifted off and it became silent again. I could feel their eyes on me, but I simply closed mine and leaned my head against the door, trying to calm myself.

When I finally got into Blaine's apartment, I hesitantly sat on the couch to catch my breath while everyone flurried around me. I didn't have anything with me; all of my stuff was still at my apartment. After a few minutes of watching them, Blaine handed me a few things – navy and gray sweatpants, an oversized sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, a few plain t-shirts, and underwear (which made my cheeks burn red).

"I – uh, I wasn't sure… I didn't know what you wanted, and I – I guessed on the size, but…" he trailed off softly after he gave them to me, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. I held them in the hand that wasn't in the sling, staring at the red and blue cotton shirts. I hadn't worn colors in so long and I was transfixed; whether it was because of the clothes themselves or the gesture, I wasn't sure. I tore my eyes away to look back at him, but he was gone. A few seconds later, he came out of what I assumed was his room with a box of clothes and went down the hall into another bedroom. He did the same thing with his pillow and guitar (I didn't know he still played), and when he caught my confused expression, he clarified.

"I'm moving some of my things into Rachel's room." This only further baffled me. "This is… it's _our_ apartment, Kurt. We both live here."

Oh.

"I – I didn't… I didn't know that," I said quietly, sucking in a breath. She hadn't come to see me in the hospital, so I wasn't sure if she was still in Blaine's life. I knew that she was starring in Funny Girl, but I never put two and two together. They were both in the city, and after nearly six years, I guess it just surprised me that they'd stayed friends. And by the looks of it, they were closer than just casual friends. If they shared an apartment together, that meant that she had probably been there for him when I left. She'd been there to pick up the pieces. I only had a glimpse of what he went through, because of what he'd said when we ran into each other, but I didn't know the extent of it all. I wonder if she hated me for doing what I did, for hurting her and for hurting Blaine.

"She doesn't hate you." I stared at him, equal parts embarrassment and shock. "I know that's what you're thinking. She just… she needs time. After you left, she – it was really – she'll come around," he murmured gently, and then let a few moments pass. "You can sleep in my room and I'll sleep in Rachel's. I changed the sheets and everything, so it's clean. The bathroom's down the hall; you can use anything in there. There's, uh, I got you a toothbrush. It's on the counter."

My reply came out scratchy. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He walked over to me and carefully rested his hand over mine – clenching the fabric of the clothes in my lap. "You're going to be okay, Kurt." I felt the tightness in my throat, but I gave him a quick nod, doing my best to will the tears out of the corners of my eyes.

Even though my father, Finn, and Carole undoubtedly wanted to see me, I was exhausted. I'd been moving more than I was used to, which caused a deeper ache to settle in my ribs, so I had to watch my breathing. Walking, especially up stairs, was hard on my lungs. I constantly had people around me, talking and asking questions and hovering, but all I really wanted was to be alone. I escaped into Blaine's room – now mine for the next however many days – shut the light off, and carefully got into bed.

I laid on my back, taking in five deep breaths as the doctor had instructed (it was supposed to help it heal), trying to ignore the pain in my chest and the questions swirling around my head.

* * *

The first few weeks out of the hospital were rough.

I felt lost, like I was wandering from room to room looking for something I didn't know how to find. I was living in someone else's home, intruding on the routines that I wasn't aware of. I would walk into a room and everyone would suddenly go quiet, looking to me with concern in their eyes and hesitation in their features. They said nothing, but I knew what they were thinking: _Should we keep talking? Should we act like things are okay?_ I'm sure whatever pamphlets the doctors had given them told them that I needed some sense of normalcy – reassuring presences that knew when to give me space and when to comfort me if I needed it.

But what did words on three-columned page know about what I needed? How could some psychologist who put together those carefully-crafted, dull paragraphs god-knows-how-many years ago know that I needed to hear "it's not your fault" or "we're here for you" or anything else that I was being told over and over again? Because I didn't. No matter how many times I heard it, it didn't make an ounce of a difference. They didn't know what I was going through and every time I heard those words, it only reminded me of what I'd done: I turned him in. Half of me felt insurmountable, deafening guilt, and the other half of me was relieved that I wouldn't have to face him yet. And then there was another part that was reminded of what _he'd_ done, and I'd thought about all those nights enough to last a lifetime. I didn't need something else that would remind me of them.

On top all that, the memories and the crushing shame and the anxiety and the slowly healing injuries, there were seven different personalities constantly bustling around me.

My father was always watching me. His eyes followed me around, making sure I was okay and that I wasn't going to randomly burst into a fit of tears like I had so often at the hospital. (And I still did, it just wasn't around him. If I needed to cry, I went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.) He tried to get me to talk about what had happened and where I wanted to go from there, but it was futile: I wasn't saying a word and it was only making things worse. There was too much in my head to be thinking about the future, so I thought about how each second was passing, each minute, each hour until night came and the day was over, and then I would wake up and do it all over again. I knew my father was upset with himself for missing what happened with me in middle and high school and that was why he was so adamant about helping me, but his relentless presence only added to my nerves.

Carole, on the other hand, gave me the space I needed. She kept her distance because she knew I was uncomfortable around so many people and I was grateful for that. She made sure I took all my medications when I needed to since there was no way I could keep up with it all in the state of mind I was in. She made sure my laundry was done and that I showered. She made me food even though I didn't eat it and gave me understanding smiles when I left to go sit on the balcony because I needed room to breathe. In the midst of the raging storm that had become my life, she was the center of calm.

Finn was still cautious around me because of what happened in the hospital, but I knew that he was just as protective of me. It was obvious that he was itching to ask me Sebastian's last name and what Sebastian did to me and what he could do to make me feel better, but he never did. He probably was realized that I wasn't talking about it and that there was really nothing he could do, so instead he just tried to keep me company whenever I was around. He would sit on the couch with me and watch whatever mindless show Carole had put on for me, interjecting his thoughts and doing his best to get me to smile. He still told his jokes and asked if I wanted bites of his sandwich, but none of it was insensitive or thoughtless or rude. He knew when I was too far gone in my head to try. In an odd way, it was a little bit comforting. He wasn't as awkward around me as everyone else was and he was just being _Finn_. It felt like he was the only thing that hadn't changed since I'd been gone.

Rachel and Cooper, however, were both weird around me. Cooper was over at Blaine's apartment a lot, checking in on him and talking with Burt, but he rarely talked to me. I don't think he quite knew what to say so he just didn't say anything. And I couldn't even blame him because I understood it, of course I did, but it still made me uneasy and tense. It seemed like Rachel at least _wanted_ to clear the air between us, but I was never sure. There were times when she avoided my gaze and there were others when I caught her staring at me with a sad look in her eyes. I never spoke more than a few words or sentences at a time (probably to thank Carole for my meds or to tell my dad that I didn't want to talk) so I didn't ask her, and she didn't ask me, either. Were we friends? Were we supposed to continue where we left off? I knew that her and Cooper had been there to pick up the pieces when I left, which is why they acted oddly around me. They saw me in a different light, I was sure, after all of that. But I knew it wasn't their fault.

Blaine never talked about it, what had happened when I was gone. The only thing I knew was what Carole had told me earlier: that it had been hard on everyone, especially Finn and my father, but that she had looked after them. No mention of Blaine or Rachel. In January, when I'd run into him, he had been someone that I didn't recognize: angry and spiteful, demanding answers. Finding out about Sebastian had changed his attitude, I suppose, because he came when I needed him. In the hospital, he was walking around on eggshells, not sure what to say or what he _could_ say. When I told him that I couldn't talk about what had happened or tell him why I left, he just sat with me and rattled off book summaries like nothing was wrong. He made uncomfortable situations feel more manageable. He was just… there for me. Quietly. He made me feel a little bit safer when I knew I should've been terrified. It's hard to explain the way we were around each other, because it didn't make much sense. He watched me, yes, but it wasn't the way my father did. It was like he was feeling my pain, like he understood just how much I was hurting and he wanted to do whatever he could to take it away. It was familiar to me, the way his eyes followed me, and after days of trying to dig back through the last seven years, I realized that it was the way he used to look at me in high school. We'd barely spoken to each other about things that mattered, and yet how he felt about the situation was clear. Things weren't as awkward as they should have been, with all of the apprehensive nerves and scars between us and the air so thick and filled with questions. He just took care of me, like Carole did. He showed me to his room and told me that whatever was his was mine and that I could come to him for anything. He gave up his bed for me and grabbed my hand for a single second, telling me that things would be okay and he spoke so softly, so sincerely, and it was these little things that put me at ease around him. I knew he would never hurt me.

In spite of that, I still felt like I didn't belong there, but I had nowhere else to go. I could go back to the apartment, surely, if I wanted to relive that night. I'm sure all the evidence had been cleaned up by then – the clothes taken to a locker somewhere, the blood mopped up and sent off to a lab. But the stains were still there. The memories were practically painted with them; by the stove in the kitchen where it all started; the wall in the hallway where I was held by forceful hands all too often; the bedroom, holding the silent echoes of the screams that I never let out, the tears that dripped onto the mattress, the bruises left on me after a night with Sebastian; and finally, the living room, where the kind evil you only ever read about had came to life.

Before that night, I knew what he was doing was bad. More than bad, it was horrific and wrong and disgusting and sickening and hundred other words I could think of. But I never saw it as _evil_. It wasn't wicked, not yet, not to me. Maybe it's the power he held over me, but it wasn't something I ever thought he should go to prison for. I'd admitted to myself that it was rape, but after it continued happening, after months passed and it became normal, "he's raping me, I need to get out" turned into "he's upset, it'll pass". I'd convinced myself from the beginning that I was the one holding back, that he just wanted intimacy, that having sex with him would make him happy. Looking back on it, that's such a terrible thing to say, but that's how I saw it.

He wasn't always like that, but I suppose to the rest of the world, it doesn't matter. I knew that's why I stayed, for the rare times that he was just Sebastian – the bold, alluring man I bumped into in the subway terminal.

Every temptation comes with a consequence, I guess.

* * *

**March 29****th****, 2019 – Blaine's Journal**

_Physically, Kurt's starting to heal. The deep purple and black bruises have faded into a yellow, slipping out of view with each passing day. The cuts on his face are gone, leaving only a minuscule scar under his hairline. He's regaining use of his arm now that it's finally out of the sling. He's got a clear head – no more headaches or blurry vision, at least – so the effects of his concussion have worn off. His ribs have started the excruciatingly slow process of mending themselves back together, and within another six weeks or so, they should be okay. His lung's still giving him trouble, and coupled with his ribs, he has a lot of chest pain and difficulty breathing sometimes. But with his breathing exercises and medications, it's getting better. In two months, all signs that he was ever injured will be gone with the exception of a few scars._

_And that's what's so unfair about all of this – that his body __gets__ to heal, regardless of how long it takes. Eventually, it won't hurt him to sit up or walk or breathe. The pills and antibiotics will be discontinued and the doctor's visits will end. But his mind? That won't ever truly heal. Because even in seven years, when he's gotten past the worst of it all and survived this, he'll still have the memories. He'll have that sharp pain in his chest every once in a while when he laughs too hard or runs too fast. He'll have that scar, the one that runs right over his lungs. He'll see it when he dresses, feel it when he showers. He'll have the occasional nightmare, where its every bit as real as it was that first night in the hospital, and he'll wake up screaming and sweating with his heart hammering in his chest. He'll always question people's motives, always be weary of strangers, especially men. He'll have to work at happiness, more than everyone else, and he'll always be scared of losing it. And being intimate with someone? That's another story entirely._

_So yes, Kurt is healing. But he isn't getting better._

_He rarely talks. He wanders around in a daze, eyes glossy and hair disheveled from his hands tugging at it. His lips are cracked and peeling because he chews at them. Sometimes his hands shake and sometimes they're clenched together in his lap so hard that his knuckles turn white. I catch him sitting outside on my balcony with his eyes shut, whispering to himself: "I'm Kurt Hummel. I'm in Blaine's apartment. I'm safe." I wonder if that's what keeps him grounded._

_He never eats enough to count, so he gets sick a lot from the medication. Most of the time, he can't sit still – aimlessly drifting from room to room – but there are other times where he'll stay in one spot, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. I want to shake him from his trance and ask him where he is, but I know what he would tell me._

_He's silent during the day but when its dark, the apartment is filled with his screams, responding to whatever nasty thing was behind his eyelids that night._

_I don't know how to help him. He won't talk about what happened, and the only one he ever utters words to is usually Carole, surprisingly. Whenever I'm around him, I walk on eggshells because the tiniest thing could set him off – a door shutting too hard, a loud voice coming down the hall, an accidental brush of a hand against his arm. I know I have to be careful. I'm not even sure what to do half the time because everybody already has specific jobs. Carole keeps track of his medications and makes him eat small bits of food so he doesn't collapse. Burt hovers, tracking him down to make sure he's okay when he wanders off somewhere. Finn provides a distraction, babbling endlessly about anything that will fill the silence. Rachel plays hostess, making sure all of the guests are given meals and directions to get where they need to go and that they know where the extra blankets are kept. Cooper handles most of the legalities – gives the hospital bills to Burt, keeps track of Sebastian, changes Kurt's primary residence and any other information that needs to be addressed – and offers up space in his own apartment for Kurt's family. And then there's me. I stand in the background, letting everything happen in front of me. I go to my recording sessions and play at the coffee house even though Charlotte told me that I didn't have to, because I still need a paycheck. I watch Kurt when I'm home, eyes silently following him around as he wanders._

_It's… strange between us. He's too distracted in his head and I'm too worried about him to be able to have much conversation, so we don't talk a lot. Even if he talked to me, I wouldn't even know what to ask or where to start. What are you thinking about? What did he do to you? Do you want me back in your life as a friend? Why didn't you tell me how bad it was in high school? Why won't you tell me how bad it is now? How can I help you? I know it isn't fair to him to ask him those things, but I can't stop the thoughts from bouncing around my head. I have so many questions – everyone does – but we never ask them anymore because we were told not to overwhelm him. Even Burt had given up after a week with no answers. All we ever asked was if he was okay, which was stupid because we clearly knew that he wasn't. But he always responded with the same thing: A glance upward with empty eyes and a slow nod, or just simply an "I'm fine." _

_But even though we don't talk, I can sense that he's comfortable (as much as he can be) with me. I try to be reassuring, whispering that things will be okay and getting him anything that he needs, and I think he understands that I just want to help. I want him to start seeing Henley, but she won't take him as a patient. She said that domestic abuse and rape aren't her area and that he needs someone much more qualified for that than she is. Regardless, I know he wouldn't go if I asked. He only went in high school for a few visits so he could get his anti-depressants, so he definitely wouldn't now. That's why I haven't brought it up with Burt yet, because I know he would force Kurt to go, and that's the last thing I want. I don't want to force him into anything, but it takes everything in me to just stand by and watch him slip further and further away._

_I don't know how to help him, and it's killing me._

* * *

**April 2****nd****, 2019 – Kurt's Journal**

_Blaine got this for me. He usually doesn't say much to me, just watches, but yesterday he asked me if I still journaled. I told him sometimes, so he went into his room and came out a few minutes later with one. "Just in case," he'd said. "It's here if you need it."_

_I don't even know why I'm doing this. It's not going to change anything. This isn't the kind of thing that can fix my problems, not anymore. Not with… with him. God, I can't even write his name. What's wrong with me?_

_I just… I don't – I don't know what I am anymore now that I'm not with him. I don't know what to be when I'm not his boyfriend. I haven't been anything else in so long._

_Can I even be something new after this? I feel so tainted with his touch. All anyone ever sees when they look at me is a product of something Sebastian did to me. I was raped. I was abused. But maybe that's all there is to see._

* * *

It took about ten days for anyone to realize who Sebastian was. Ten days for Blaine, ten days for Rachel, and ten days for the media.

The New York Times originally told their readers that their Events writer had to take some time off for "personal reasons" due to an "emergency", so they would have someone temporarily filling in for him. It wasn't until word of Sebastian's arrest (and more importantly, the reason for it) got around that they released an official statement to the press:

_We are as saddened and troubled to learn this news about Mr. Smythe as I'm sure all of you are. Neither his staff nor his coworkers knew anything of his home life, as he was never one to discuss it. Effective immediately, Mr. Smythe has been dismissed of all of his duties to our organization. The accusations against him are severe and inexcusable: we do not take them lightly, nor do we tolerate them. We are staying updated with this matter, and while we recognize our own fault for not being aware, Mr. Smythe has acted outside of our knowledge. Beyond company standards and values, he has behaved in a way that is both heinous and unspeakable in the eyes of moral law._

_We offer our support and sympathy to his significant other._

I was a little surprised to read that they had severed all connections with him so quickly, but I knew why they had done it. One of their most read and prestigious columnists was arrested for charges of rape and domestic violence – an establishment as well-respected as the New York Times had to make it clear that they were in no way affiliated with his actions.

They didn't know my name because I'd never been to his office and I'm sure Sebastian had never mentioned anything about me past my first name, but I knew they could figure it out if they really wanted to. If they wanted my picture and name to headline every newspaper in the country, they could make it happen. In doing so, however, they would only further disgrace their own image, so they opted to just leave it at "significant other". Regardless of their motive, I was just relieved that I was mostly left out of it.

In other news stories, I was less fortunate. I was the talk of all local New York news. I was the boyfriend of the New York Times writer accused of rape – Kurt, they knew. No last name, no picture. (The only positive of Sebastian not wanting to be seen with me, I guess.) The incident itself had gotten national attention, but the general focus of that was more on the Times and their employee than me specifically.

All across the country, I was known in some way, shape, or form. Never by face, but always by name or by status. Some were heartbroken for me, some wished that I could find a way to get past this "unimaginably difficult time in my life", and some hoped that I was given the justice that I deserved. Others, however – usually religious establishments or homophobic outlets – blamed me. My lifestyle was the cause of all of this. I'd brought it on myself because I was gay and it all could have been avoided if I'd just "manned up". Many believed that I was making it up to get the attention or that I was blowing it way out of proportion. There was a certain stigma behind rape cases, and the fact that I was male only worsened that stigma.

I knew, of course, that I wasn't lying. I knew what I accused him of and I knew, logically, that I was right. But there was always a voice in the back of my brain, asking me what I'd done. If I hadn't said anything, then this wouldn't be happening. I'd ruined Sebastian's career, made a small dent in the credibility of the New York Times, and subjected myself to being a nationally recognized "rape" victim. Hearing all of the brutal things said about me only worsened my shame and guilt over turning him in.

It got to the point where news channels were banned from the apartment. My father was shocked to find out that Sebastian had worked for the Times, because that was a paper he'd read ever since I could remember. Surely, he'd seen some of Sebastian's pieces before, and that tore him up. For seven years, he'd wondered where I was, and all the while, his nose had been only inches away from the man I'd been dating. What a small world we live in.

* * *

**Blaine**

The first time they mentioned Sebastian's name on TV, I thought Rachel was going to collapse. I'd known who Sebastian was for a few days since I'd been talking with Cooper and Burt about legal paperwork, but I hadn't known how to tell Rachel about it. Her friend – the one she'd gotten coffee with for the last several years, someone we'd _both_ gone to dinner with – was the same person who had been abusing Kurt. It was a sick, twisted coincidence that we'd known him, and it disgusted me.

"Let's head over to Dan for the latest breaking news," the newswoman said, and as the man began to talk, all of our heads snapped up.

"We've just gotten this in, Leslie, and it's quite a shocker. Sebastian Smythe, a writer for the New York Times, has been arrested for accusations of rape and domestic violence against his boyfriend, who has yet to be identified. We're working on getting more details, but that's what we know so far. Stay tuned, we'll be updating this story as soon as we have more information."

I looked from Kurt, who was sitting on the couch with his head down, to Rachel, who was standing by the front door with absolute horror on her face. Quickly, I walked over to her and grabbed her arms. I took her down the hallway and into the bathroom, turning the faucet on to mute our conversation.

"Rachel."

"Did I just hear that?" she asked stiffly, her eyes meeting mine.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I… I found out a few days ago. I was going over some paperwork with Burt–"

"You knew?" she said loudly, flinging her arms out. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Be quiet!" I frantically grabbed her hand and shushed her. "Kurt can't know about this, okay? He's a mess. It's all over the news and he's being dragged into it, and he can barely cope with what happened, let alone all of this. That's why I didn't tell you. Because now you're going to feel guilty, but you can't say anything to him."

"So I'm just supposed to ignore it?" she asked, incredulous.

"For now," I replied. "This is – it's terrible enough for us, so we need to leave him out of it."

"How – How is that even _possible_?" she whispered, running her hands through her hair. "God, I – I feel sick. I was his _friend_. I saw him every week. I worked with him. And while I was sitting down talking to him, Kurt was at home, covering up his bruises, and–" She shook her head and rubbed her eyes with her clenched fists. She took a deep breath.

"We couldn't have known, Rachel."

"But we could have," she countered. "We knew he had a boyfriend. We could've asked for a picture or a last name or _something."_

"Out of the millions of people in this city, how could we have expected to run into Kurt's boyfriend? We didn't even know if he was in New York. We can go back and kick ourselves and regret it, but at the end of the day it's not going to do anything. It won't fix what's been done."

"Don't you feel guilty?" she asked, voice deep and astonished. "How are just supposed to let this go?"

"I feel so goddamn guilty that if I think about it, I'm going to hate myself, Rachel," I responded tightly. "Trust me, I feel guilty. I ate with and went out with the man whose been putting Kurt through hell for the last five years, and I didn't even know. And even worse, I _liked_ him. He was so intelligent and quick-witted and he seemed genuinely nice, but we were so fucking wrong about him. He was a fucking convincing actor; I'll give him that, because we never even had a clue. But none of that even matters. We can't change the past."

"God, looking back on it, we should've know something was wrong. He never talked about Kurt or had any pictures of him, and every time we wanted to meet him, he said he was always busy. He was intentionally keeping Kurt away from him in public."

"That's sickening by itself. The outlets don't even know Kurt's full name or have a picture, which means that Sebastian never talked about him at work or took him anywhere after he made it big with the Times."

"What, was he prepared for this situation?"

I just looked at Rachel, giving her a silent confirmation. "He was probably… he was probably too bruised up to be taken anywhere," I said quietly. "He didn't want anyone asking questions, so he kept his distance."

"I can't talk about this anymore," she told me suddenly. "I can't. I don't wanna think about it right now."

"I don't either. Let's just go back out there, but you have to promise me that you won't say anything."

"What would I say, Blaine? 'I knew your boyfriend while he was abusing you, but I didn't know who he actually was'? There's nothing I could say to him."

And there wasn't, not at that time. Kurt didn't find out that we'd know Sebastian until months later, after him and Rachel finally sat down and talked.

* * *

After the first dozen or so nightmares, Blaine started coming into my room. It had usually been my father, and when they realized that that would only make it worse, it was Carole coming in hold my clenched fists in her hands. But she was never able to calm me down. She stopped the screaming, sure, but the shaking, the whimpering, the blood pounding in my heart – that never went away.

And then a week had passed and Blaine made her and my father go to Cooper's instead of just falling asleep on his couch. They were both clearly exhausted, my dad especially, and they hadn't truly slept in days. Warily, they went. So when the nightmares came in the middle of the night like they always did, it was Blaine that knelt by my (his) bed. He tried to help, but I was too distraught to let him do anything, so I caught my breath and told him that I would be fine. He always left when I told him to, but the next night, we were back in the same scenario. I screamed, he came in, I sat laid with my hand over my eyes, he tried to comfort me, I said I would be okay, and then he left. This happened for almost two weeks.

But then, about three and a half weeks after I'd been released, I had the worst nightmare I'd had since the hospital. For the most part, my nightmares consisted of various distorted flashbacks of my relationship with Sebastian – meeting him in front of the coffeehouse where I ran into Blaine, sitting with him in Central Park as he laughs while he tells me all of the ways he's going to hurt me, him screaming at me about my job at Vogue in the apartment of the party where he stormed in and demanded that I leave. They were terrifying, but only because they alluded to all of the things that I should have seen sooner, because I relived these moments and noticed the warning signs this time. The dreams were my brain's way of coping with what he did to me. But I never dreamt about that last night, or about him hurting me or taking off my clothes or yelling at me. At least, not until I did.

I knew at some point that it would come. I knew my dreams wouldn't stop at cautious memories and haunting words. I wouldn't keep having the same five dreams over and over again, just Sebastian in a different setting or with different words coming out of his mouth. No, it would come. That memory that I feared most, the one that would mirror perfectly what he'd done. It would happen exactly as it had in real life – nothing would change or be different. It would be like he was doing it all over again, like I was there, underneath him, bleeding and almost naked and struggling so hard against his hold. He would kick me until my ribs cracked and until I couldn't breathe. He would punch me until I was choking on my own blood, until my lips turned red with it. He would scream drunken, angry words into the air that I couldn't hear over the pounding in my head, words that I knew said: _you're a liar and a slut and you're cheating on me and you're __mine_. He would take off my pants and undo the zipper on his. He would grip my thighs with his fingers; threaten that he could make it hurt more if I kept fighting him. He would lift my legs until I could feel the weight of the world collapsing on my chest and he would shove himself inside of me and I would feel heat exploding somewhere in my lungs–

I woke up screaming – an ear-piercing, glass-shattering noise that wouldn't end. I pushed it out of my throat and into the room, gulping in air as I began to hyperventilate. In between my screams and the choking breaths, I could feel warm salt water making its way into my mouth. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, my pulse racing under my skin so fast that I thought I might tear in two.

"No no no no no," I cried, pressing a hand to my chest as I felt the familiar weight settling in it. I couldn't breathe. The air wouldn't get into my lungs and I couldn't breathe. Still sobbing, I put my head between my legs and rubbed at the painful knot, desperate to make it go away. "Oh my god, oh god."

Sound was just dull, muted noise all around me. It was like I was hearing under water, like my eardrums were beating along to the pump of my heart. Through that fog, I faintly heard my door open and then suddenly there was someone by my bed.

"Kurt? Kurt, look at me."

A hand was at my elbow and I jerked away, shaking my head.

"Oh my god," I choked out again, sucking in a breath that felt like cement.

"Kurt," Blaine said, and he went to put his hand on my back. I flinched, which only made me cry harder.

"I – I can't –" Images of my dream – of my _memories_ – flashed in my brain, and I couldn't finish.

"It's me. Hey, shh, it's me. It's Blaine. You're okay, Kurt. You're safe. Breathe, okay? It's not good for your chest or your lung, so I need you to take slow breaths for me."

_It's Blaine_, I reminded myself as I held my arms steady around my waist, willing the shakiness to go away. I sniffled and felt tears drip from my nose as I did what he asked. _It's just Blaine. I'm safe with him. He would never hurt me._

"I'm Kurt Hummel," I began in between my breaths, quiet but frantic. "I'm in Blaine's apartment. I'm safe."

"You're safe," he repeated. "Safe. Look at me."

I picked my head up and ran my trembling hands through my hair. I met his eyes.

"It was just a dream," he assured me.

"But it – it wasn't," I responded breathlessly, and felt the heaviness in my chest tighten. "It was – he was on top of me and I – I was bleeding and he wouldn't stop, but I told him to, oh god, I told him to stop." The hysterical fear was back and I could feel Sebastian under my skin, could feel his hands on me. I looked around wildly, chest heaving and throat constricting.

"He's not here," Blaine said firmly, and I wondered how long it took him to realize what my nightmare had been about.

I couldn't form words over the growing lump, so I mutely nodded.

"You're okay."

I nodded again, but I felt pressure behind my eyes.

"Can I… can I give you a hug?" he asked gently, unsure.

He'd asked first. Just like Carole.

"Yeah…okay."

And when he tugged me into his arms, my hands caught between us, he pressed a kiss to my hair and that's when I lost it. Tears raced down my cheeks as my shoulders shook with the intensity of my sobs, causing pain to flare up again in my ribs.

"Shh, it's okay. Breathe. You're okay, Kurt. I need you to take slow breaths, okay? You might hurt your lung or your ribs."

I took in gulps of air, and began to count.

_One, two, three. Breathe, hold it. Focus on the pain. Four, five, six. Let it out._

Eventually, the knot in my chest went away. But the fear stayed with me, lulling me into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Every night from then on, Blaine would come in and hold me when I had a nightmare. For the most part, it helped. He would come into my room and sit with me while I worked through the immediate panic and then he would put his arms around me and pull me to his chest. I would catch my breath and fight the terror welling up inside, and after an hour or two of tensed muscles and whispered reassurances, I would exhaust myself into sleep. I would always wake up alone, and a part of me was grateful that I didn't have to endure the humiliating morning-after explanation.

But there were other times when I was too scared, too hysterical, to let him hold me. Sometimes I was frantic, like I had been that night, and instead of letting his arms go around me, I would shove out of his embrace. I would pace the room with shaking hands running through my hair or I would sit shaking on the corner of the bed with my arms locked around my stomach, staring into nothing. There were times when I would feel a paralyzing fear whenever he tried to touch me, so I would flinch and recoil and he would know to keep his distance.

Usually, my brain was able to realize that he wasn't Sebastian. But not always.

We worked like this for a few weeks. Until I had another panic attack after one of my nightmares (I always did when I dreamt of That night). I woke up and Blaine was already in my room, but I needed space so ran (more like limped, because of my ribs) past him and shut myself in the bathroom. I sat, trying to breathe through the rock in my lungs and the fear racing in my veins. After an hour or so, I went back into my room but he wasn't there. Tears prickled behind my eyes: I was terrified of what would happen when I closed them. I couldn't go to bed alone.

I made my way across the apartment to the room Blaine now shared with Rachel and quietly turned the knob. I opened the door and saw them talking close together, and Blaine's hands were in his hair. Their heads whipped in my direction and when they saw me, they both went quiet.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked right away, looking at my face.

"Can I… um, can you come here? Please?"

He followed me out into the hallway, concerned.

"Are you okay?"

I pulled at the sleeve of my sweater, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. I swallowed tightly and shut my eyes.

"Hey," he murmured. "You can tell me."

"Can you… can you come sleep with me? In my room? I can't – I just…" I trailed off, glancing away. _I can't be alone._

I needed… I needed _something_, but I didn't know what. Only that I was exhausted and scared and that Blaine would let me lay with him, no questions asked.

"Of course," he told me gently. "Can I give you a hug?"

I nodded, appreciative that he always, always asked, and he stepped forward to wrap his arms around me. I sighed, wondering how it was possible for me to be so terrified of men but so comfortable with Blaine. It wasn't something I ever understood. He was one of the only people I trusted, and that wasn't surprising given our history. But seven years is a long time. There was so much anger, so much resentment and heartache and grief between us after I'd left. How could that all just go away? How could he let all of it go to be there for me? Why was he doing this?

So I asked him.

"I don't know," he replied softly. "I don't get it, either."

That night, he slept on the left side of the bed and I slept on the right. There was a foot of space between us, but he didn't say anything about it. He stayed with me until we woke again, and when I felt him stir, shame rose up in me.

"It's okay," he mumbled, reading my mind.

That was the last he spoke of it.

* * *

**April 18****th****, 2019 - Kurt**

I stood on the balcony, clutching a blanket on my shoulders. The far away silence of the city was soothing, in a way. It made me feel small, like I was tucked away somewhere safe. Somewhere he couldn't hurt me. I heard the sliding door open but made no attempt to move or even acknowledge who it was, because I knew it was Blaine. He walked up next to me and rested his hands on the railing, staring down at all the buildings. He waited for me to say something, but I never did.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he asked.

When I finally looked at him, everything in me that had been pushing against me since I'd come out here broke. My voice was cracked, my cheeks were wet, my hair was disheveled from how many times I'd run my fingers through it. I could feel the guilt crawling through my body again – for turning him in, for letting him do what he did to me. It never ended. I always had something to regret or feel ashamed about because I had the memories of it all happening playing in a constant loop in my head. And it got to the point where I couldn't think about anything else, because I needed to know _why_. Why me? Why him?

"It's not a sin to love somebody, is it?"

"I thought you weren't religious," he said, careful.

I glanced away, sniffling as I felt more tears drip down my cheeks. "I'm not. But there has to be a reason."

"A reason for what?" he asked gently.

"For it to hurt so much." The words came rushing out of my throat and that was it, the tears were flooding out of my eyes and I kept shaking my head, wrapped up in my thoughts like a train speeding down a track. Unstoppable, dangerous. "Am I being punished? Did I – I don't know why he would – he said h-he loved me."

He gathered me in his arms and put one hand on my head and one on my neck, holding my while I sobbed into his chest. I could hear murmured sounds, but all I could think was: _I loved him, I loved him, I loved him._

And then I choked it out, "I still love him", and part of me knew that was true. If I hated him, all of this wouldn't be so hard. If I hated him, then I wouldn't be sitting on this balcony, working myself into hysterics wondering why he did what he did. Did he love me? Would that have made this any easier? Is loving me but hurting me better than him abusing me because I meant so little to him? I didn't know. I didn't want to think about it.

"Why do we choose people that do nothing but hurt us?" I exhale. I felt exhausted. I felt sick of hurting and thinking and crying. "Why do we stay with them?" _Why did I stay with him?_

I felt the warmth of his hand brush against my forehead.

"I don't know," he said, running his thumb over my cheek. "We accept the love we think we deserve, I guess."

I was quiet.

"I'm sorry I woke you," I told him eventually, the embarrassment and guilt starting to find their way back to me.

He gently grabbed my fingers and held them. "Don't be. I want to be here for you."

Wordlessly, I laid my head back on his chest and wrapped my arms around him. I focused on my breathing because I could feel the tightness on the back of my throat forming again. It was as if every tear I cried was replaced with another memory or scar, so I was never going to run out of things to cry about. When I felt the telltale prickle behind my eyes, I began to count.

_One, two, three_, I started, squeezing my eyes shut. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. _Four, five, six._ Repeat.

I wondered if I was ever going to stop counting.

I'm not sure how long he and I stayed out there on the balcony, but eventually he asked me if I wanted to go back to bed. I followed him into the apartment, letting the blanket trail behind me. When I sat on the mattress and faced him nervously, he brushed a piece of hair out of my face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Can you – can you hold me?" I began, and then I rushed to explain. "It's just, he never did, and it usually, it helps with my… nightmares." I took a deep breath and looked away.

"Of course," he told me softly, and then opened his arms. I laid down, looking at him again to make sure he was okay with it. He nodded his head, so I relaxed against him. He pulled the blanket over us, and when he grabbed my fingers, my breath stalled for a moment. He'd never done that before.

After a long silence, I spoke up. "I'm scared."

He gently squeezed my hands. "It's okay. Just try to get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

His words rattled in my brain, and I fell asleep wondering why I felt safe with him.

It took a little over five weeks for Sebastian's proceedings to end. In between doctors visits and wandering around Blaine's apartment (sick with both anxiety and guilt over pressing charges), I was informed of what was happening with the case.

Sebastian was arrested after I confessed in the hospital. They'd gotten him just as he'd slipped out the entrance doors. Between my statement and admission, they had enough probable cause to take him in as a suspect. The police report (which included statements from my doctors and my test results) was sent to a prosecutor, who decided that the case was strong enough for Sebastian to be charged. He was charged with first degree rape and first degree assault, even though both sides knew that if the case went to trial, there was a slim chance that those charges would stick. It was a rape case. Somehow, they always got away.

At his arraignment, he pleaded not guilty, of course. He was told that he could receive up to twenty-five years for the rape and twenty-five years for the assault, for a total of fifty years in prison. He received no bail.

After his preliminary hearing, where the prosecutor presented evidence to a judge, both the prosecutor and Sebastian's attorney must have realized something, because they decided to enter into a plea bargain. Sebastian would plead guilty to second degree rape and second degree assault, both with a prison term of up to seven years.

The prosecutor knew that the chances of Sebastian actually being convicted if the case went to trial were slight: only two percent of rapists were ever convicted. On top of the fact that I was a male in a world that both tried to silence male victims and reinforce the idea that rape and abuse only happened to women, I was gay. I doubt that a jury would fight to convict my attacker– something that infuriated me, but was in no way surprising. The prosecutor had been right to get Sebastian to plea bargain; that was the only way he was going to serve any time at all.

And Sebastian's lawyer? He knew there was enough evidence for Sebastian to be convicted, and even though it was almost certain that my status as a homosexual man would work in his favor, he wasn't willing to risk it. He either take the chance of Sebastian receiving fifty years or he cut a deal to get him less than fifteen, so he cut the deal.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if it all went to trial – whether the jury would have been homophobic or unbiased – and why Sebastian accepted the deal; if it was because he felt that he deserved it or because he knew there was so much evidence him. I guess it doesn't matter now. In the end, he got five years for the rape and five for the assault. Out of what could have (and should have) been fifty. But that's how a plea deal works, I suppose. Both sides cave and neither ever end up completely happy.

I got lucky, I was told, that Sebastian was sentenced to any time at all. Most people aren't that fortunate.

* * *

**April 19****th****, 2019 – Kurt's Journal**

_Why? Why did he take that plea deal? I don't understand._

_Those charges never would've stuck if the case went to trial. I can't even believe the prosecutor thought they had enough to charge and arrest him. __I__ know how much evidence there was, but in the eyes of the law, it probably wasn't much. The DNA evidence wouldn't have been back for months, but there was proof. It was in the black eye and the fractured ribs and the hole in my lung; it was in the way I'd screamed and thrashed and sobbed when he came into the room; it was in the deep purple bruises and the scaring on my thighs that was confirmation that that night was only one among many. All that can be overlooked, of course. And I'm a man. And gay. He could pass for straight, but I never could. The stars were practically aligned for him to be pardoned with a pat on the back, but he took the deal._

_I need to know why._

* * *

**April 20****th****, 2019 – Kurt's Journal**

_I wonder – why is that last night so different from all the others? Why is that the one that sticks out in my nightmares, over and over and over? He'd never been that physical with me, sure, but there were times he'd been much rougher sexually. Times he'd forced me harder than he had that night._

_But I wasn't able to move, so he didn't have to do much to hold me down, did he?_

_Why did I never have nightmares before? I lived with him for so long, right next to him. I slept tangled up in his arms after he would rape me. But it didn't always feel like that to me. It didn't always hurt, either. When I struggled or fought, that's when it hurt. That's when it felt like rape. But I learned early on never to fight him, because it was easier to let him do what he wanted so that it would be over quickly. If I submitted, he didn't get angry and he wouldn't hurt me. My definition of rape became narrow and distorted, and I blamed myself. "I didn't resist, it's not his fault."_

_Over the course of four and a half, that night was just a blip. One out of hundreds. One scar on a body stitched with them. So why that memory? Why now? _

_It's because I let it all in, I think. I thought about it. I __keep__ thinking about it. I have so many people telling me things I've never wanted to believe, things I knew deep down, and I feel like I'm being pulled in two opposite directions. There's this piece of me that just can't let him go. I can't shake him, and the other part of me knows that that was what he always wanted. He buried himself under my skin and created a home, and there's no way to smoke him out now._

_I want to badly to be free of him. But even though he's being locked up for a decade, I don't think I'll ever truly be rid of him._

* * *

At the time, I still loved him, or at least I thought I did. Parts of him, anyways. I had been with him for almost five years, I couldn't just throw that all away, could I? People don't just… wake up one day and stop feeling the things they've felt for longer than they can remember simply because they're supposed to. I knew that he was a monster. But that's how I'd always loved him; it made no difference in the end. The thing about Sebastian was that he had a way of making me forget about all of the bad stuff he'd ever done. All it took was just one look that said, "I'm here, Kurt. Please don't give up on me. Fight for us. You know I love you, just keep pushing and you'll get through to me." And I did, I fought for us. That's what's so scary – that there was never going to be anything to break through to. I was searching for something that didn't exist, for someone who didn't exist.

He'd always known what I couldn't admit to myself: that he had dug himself far enough under my skin to create a nest, one that I would continue to kindle even after he was out of my life. I was built out of paper and I knew I would catch flame so easily.

If everyone around me was telling me that that was the right thing, then it had to be, didn't it? Somewhere deep inside me, I knew that this could give me the closure I needed to rebuild who I was. I knew that he had hurt me in ways that were so much more damaging than my cracked ribs and punctured lung and concussion. I knew that I had lost so much and that those pieces of myself weren't something I could ever get back. They told me he deserved it, and logically, I knew that. Most of me was glad that he was going to spend the next decade rotting in that prison cell.

But there was still a part of me, no matter the size, that carried the weight of the guilt of what I'd done to him. And I couldn't let it go.

* * *

**April 21****st****, 2019 – Blaine's Journal**

_People always say that if a story ends with a death, it's a tragedy. And that any story that ends with the bad guy getting caught it a happy one. But that's not always true, and I realized that yesterday._

_Sebastian may have been locked up, but justice wasn't fulfilled. Not even a little. He only got ten years, but with good behavior, he'll probably be out in seven. He could be out of prison before Kurt's even finished healing from all of this, and __that's__ tragic. Nobody died. Nobody was killed. But Kurt's attacker – the person who abused him and cracked his ribs and punctured his lung and stole something from him that he'll never, ever be able to get back – didn't get what he deserved. God, he hurt him for so long and did so many unspeakable, evil things to him, and what does he get? A few years in a cell in exchange for shredding Kurt to pieces?_

_Yes, Kurt got out, and yes, Sebastian got caught. But this story doesn't have a happy ending. Because Kurt still has so many scars and those are things that are never going to go away._

* * *

**April 22****nd****, 2019 – Blaine's Journal**

_God, Burt's losing his mind. He's __angry__. I don't think I've ever seen anyone this angry since my father. Since this whole thing started, he's been talking to the police about updates and keeping track of Sebastian, but I don't think he was truly prepared for an outcome. None of us were, even though we all knew what was going to happen. Rape cases never get a fair outcome, so I don't know why we were all holding on so tightly to the hope that Sebastian would spend the rest of his life in prison._

_He keeps trying to talk to Kurt, to apologize, I guess, but Kurt doesn't want to talk about it. Kurt only discusses very surface things with Burt, when he talks at all, because he just doesn't like talking about what happened. Burt's frustrated with that, but he wants Kurt to understand how sorry he is that the justice system is so unfair._

_He's distraught over it. How is he supposed to deal with the fact that the man who tormented his child is only paying a decade for it?_

* * *

**April 23****rd****, 2019 – Blaine's Journal **

"Medicine" by Blaine Anderson

_Pick it up, pick it all up._  
_And start again._  
_You've got a second chance,_  
_you could go home._  
_Escape it all._  
_It's just irrelevant._

_It's just medicine._  
_It's just medicine._

_You could still be,_  
_what you want to,_  
_What you said you were,_  
_when I met you._

_You've got a warm heart,_  
_you've got a beautiful brain._  
_But it's disintegrating,_  
_from all the medicine._  
_from all the medicine._  
_from all the medicine._  
_Medicine._

_You could still be,_  
_what you want to be,_  
_What you said you were,_  
_when you met me._

_You could still be,_  
_what you want to._  
_What you said you were,_  
_when I met you._  
_when you met me._  
_when I met you._

* * *

**April 24****th****, 2019 – Blaine's Journal**

_I wrote that song for Kurt, but I don't want to tell him about it. I don't even know __why__ I wrote it. I sat down to brainstorm ideas for songs for my album, but I kept going back to the idea for that specific song. So I wrote it and now I have it, but what am I supposed to do with it? I can't put something like that on the album. That's not my personal story. It's Kurt's. I can't show it to him, either. I don't know what he would even think about it. Hell, __I__ don't even know what I think about it._

_I don't know how I feel about Kurt, either. I'm getting… feelings. I realized that the other night on the balcony. And it's bad, it's so bad, but I don't know what to do. I don't even know __what__ I feel, but I know that I want him in my arms. I want to protect him from all of these terrible memories he has to live with and I want to help him get better so that he can be happy. I just want him to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted for him, isn't it?_

_Part of me feels guilty. While I was just getting out of therapy, he was getting into this relationship with Sebastian. I was moving on, trying to forget him, when he was being abused and hurt by this monster. I know I never could've known, but I still hate myself for it._

_I just wish I could rewind time so that I could stop him from leaving on that night seven years ago._

* * *

**April 23****rd****, 2019 – Kurt's Journal**

"Paper-Chambered Heart"

_I want to take a match,_

_light the spaces between my rib cage,_

_watch as the flames lick and caress and crawl their way up_

_my body and out my throat._

_Lead courses through my hollow veins_

_composed of torn index cards and scraps of newspaper_

_and the backs of tattered books,_

_flammable._

_They're assembled by your hands_

_forceful, molding, firm, _

_and I am re-created_

_again._

_I am human origami_

_folded and twisted and ripped_

_over and over_

_until my body shapes itself to new directions._

_The tape that links_

_my insides to my outsides–_

_The staples that hold_

_my organs in place–_

_The glue that keeps_

_the thread-stitched smile on my face–_

_I can feel their tug,_

_the dull ache,_

_the relentless throbbing_

_as I am slowly pulled apart._

_I am unraveling._

_I want to burn _

_until the flames fade away _

_and leave behind nothing but _

_ashes._

_My paper chambered heart_

_longs for you_

_beats for you_

_aches for you._

_So you soak me in gasoline_

_use your lips to light the fire_

_and then _

_blow._

_You watch me catch flame_

_and then put me out _

_after charcoal smudges cover every inch of me_

_and the outsides of my skin is smoked raw._

_I am only finishing _

_what you started._

* * *

In the weeks after Sebastian was sentenced, I didn't know what to do with myself. I had all of this pressure inside of me and I didn't know how to get rid of it. The shame, the anger, the fear, the guilt – it was all magnified the second I heard about Sebastian's sentence. Blaine had a small piano in his room, and I figured that was a good place to start, so I asked if I could use it.

"You still play?" he asked, surprised.

"No… I uh, I haven't played in a long time," I replied softly. "I just – I need something."

"Do you write songs?"

"After I… when I first got here, I did." A silence followed, and I knew we were both thinking about the memories that we refused to talk about with each other. "I never had any music to go with it, because I've never been as good at that. It was faster to just write music like it was poetry, not like it was a song," I told him.

I wondered about that letter I wrote him all those years ago, the one with the flash drive taped to it, and if he ever got it. That song was one of the few I ever created that had music with it, and the only one I ever thought was good enough to share with someone.

Blaine cleared his throat, probably uncomfortable with the new information. There was always the slightest bit of unease after either of us talked about what had happened in the last seven years, because we still hadn't had that conversation yet. I didn't know when or if we ever would. "I have some music books in my closet; I can get them for you if you want."

"Yeah… that'd be great."

A few minutes later, I was surrounded by dozens and dozens of old music books. I flipped through them, trying to find a relatively simple piece but one that would carry enough emotion for me to be able to release some of this energy. When I finally found it, I leaned it up against the piano and studied it, looking at the notes. It wasn't too complicated, but because I hadn't played in so long, it would take me a while to get reacquainted.

I gently laid my fingers on the keys and began to play. I quietly let the words slip through my mouth as I moved my eyes between the keyboard and the instruction book.

_Something always brings me back to you_  
_It never takes too long_  
_No matter what I say or do, _

_I still feel you here 'till the moment I'm gone_

_You hold me without touch_  
_You keep me without chains_  
_I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love and not feel your reign_

_You loved me 'cause I'm fragile_

_When I thought that I was strong_  
_But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone  
_

I swallowed the lump in my throat and missed the next few words. I stumbled over the keys, messing up in parts of the song that were easy. My playing was chaotic and rough – untamed emotion that I let run though me. I pushed past the stinging in my eyes and the memories flashing through my brain, because I needed to focus. My voice was barely there and cracked with pain, but in that moment, it was all I had, that song and the notes in front of me.

_I live here on my knees as I_  
_Try to make you see that you're_  
_Everything I think I need here on the ground_  
_But you're neither friend nor foe though I_  
_Can't seem to let you go_  
_The one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me down_  
_You're keeping me down, yeah, yeah, yeah_  
_You're onto me, onto me and all over_  
_Something always brings me back to you_  
_It never takes too long_

The song ended and I took a deep breath. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingers, and I stared at my hand as I watched blood pulse from my palm all the way up my arm. The veins ran right over my wrist, already scarred so much that I could barely see any skin that was unmarked. I ran my thumb over the raised scars, wondering how long it had been since I'd done it. It wasn't something I'd thought about since being here, I guess because I was walking around, waiting for that clock over my head to stop ticking. I'd had something to focus on. And now Sebastian had had his hearing, but nothing changed for me. Part of me was thankful that he was away, that he couldn't hurt anybody else, but I didn't get that closure I thought I might get. Now days were just days; they weren't leading up to anything. There was a highway stretched out in front of me and there was no end in sight.

I fixated my gaze on my wrist, and smiled. Sebastian wasn't here to stop me this time.

* * *

I wrestled all night with thoughts of doing it. I fought myself because I knew what "one little cut" would turn into, what it _always_ turned into. I was an addict, and that was my drug of choice. If I started that again, just for one night, it would take months to get rid of the urges. Maybe even years. I've never coped well with depression (was that what this was?) or with anxiety or fear or any of the other emotions I was feeling, and my excuse for cutting would be that it kept all of those emotions at bay. I knew that, but I didn't care. I needed it.

I went searching in his bathroom, in his kitchen, in his drawers, but there was nothing sharp in sight. How had I never noticed that before? Did they intentionally move everything, or was that just so Blaine wasn't tempted?

I had to find another way.

* * *

The next day, I told Carole that I needed to get some air. Not on the balcony, but outside, away from the apartment. Her eyebrows rose in shock; it was the first time I'd gone out by myself since being released from the hospital.

"I just – I can't stay in here right now. I need space. I feel like I'm suffocating," I told her, desperate. "Please, I'll be okay; I just need to get out."

She looked at me with concern and ran a hand over the side of my cheek, ignoring my slight flinch. "Okay, honey. Please be careful, alright?"

I nodded, quickly leaving the apartment before my father or Blaine noticed that I was gone.

I thought I would be able to handle the mile-long walk to the convenience store a few blocks away. When I came up with the idea to go get blades, I never factored in me having a panic attack on the street as something that would get in my way. Panic attacks were things I only ever had when I remembered That night, so I thought I would be fine.

But I guess when you haven't experienced something, you don't know how you're going to react. I hadn't been around this many people in months, let alone in the state Sebastian had left me in.

After five minutes of walking, I was breathing heavily as my eyes darted between the crowds. There were dozens of people surrounding me at all times, no matter how many steps I took or how fast I ran to put space between us. It felt as though each person I passed was focusing on me, looking at the fear on my face or the little scar right over my eyebrow, and I knew that they knew what had happened to me. The echoes of their conversations grew louder and louder until their voices just became his, and that's when I lost it.

I stumbled into a side street that was nearly empty, dizzy with the cacophony in my head and the ghost hands I sensed tugging on my wrists. I ran into the single person on the entire sidewalk, and he must have realized how unstable I was because he lightly grabbed my shoulder to steady me. I instinctually let out a noise and tried to get away, but I ended up tripping and falling instead. I hit the ground with a thud, breaking the skin on the base of my palm, and pain shot through my ribs. When the guy tried to help me up, I screamed. I could feel the pressure behind my eyes building as I cradled my elbow close to me, and I didn't realize I'd started crying until I felt wetness soak into my jeans. The man gently asked if I had someone to come get me, so I gave him my phone and choked out Blaine's name. I sat with my head between my knees, ignoring the throbbing in my ribs, trying to breathe through the waves of fear pressing down on me. I could feel the familiar heaviness on my chest, forcing the weight into my lungs. I could feel the oxygen being sucked form the air around me, and I couldn't breathe.

_One, two, three_, I started. _You're okay. He isn't here. He's not here. Breathe. Focus._

Blaine showed up five minutes later, frantic. He quickly thanked the man before leaning down to me.

"Kurt? It's me. It's Blaine. Hey, you're okay."

"Can't breathe," I rasped out, a hand on my chest.

"Shh, yes you can. Look at me. In, out. Do it with me," he instructed, putting his hand on my back. "In, out. That's good."

I shut my eyes and listened to his voice tell me what to do. After a minute, the knot loosened and I was able to breathe again.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, kneeling down to my level.

"Needed air," I told him, anxiously looking around at the crowded streets. "We need – I can't be here. Too many people."

So he took me home.

* * *

Ten hours later found me sitting on the balcony. I told Blaine that I needed to be alone, knowing his presence wouldn't make much of a difference, anyways. I wouldn't be sleeping that night. He reluctantly went into his and Rachel's room, leaving me in mine. I curled up on the bed and wrapped my arm around my legs, ignoring the ache in my ribs and hoping that making myself smaller would somehow make me feel safer. It didn't work. After struggling against the waves of dread rolling over me, it got harder to breathe, so I quickly made my way outside to the balcony.

I sat with my back against the wall, cracking my fingers in my lap. I shut my eyes and swallowed the emotions I felt tightening at the back my throat. I didn't know what those emotions were – fear, shame, guilt, anxiety, or maybe a combination of them. They all tended to run together and I couldn't tell them apart, not when they were all lodged in my chest in one big mass. I didn't even know _what_ I was so afraid of. It wasn't one specific thing that I could pinpoint, because it was everything and everyone around me.

"I'm Kurt Hummel. I'm in Blaine's apartment. I'm okay," I murmured over and over. "Okay."

I pressed my hand tightly against my sternum and rub at the knot forming underneath it. I took small gulps of air and focused on the pulse beating against my skin.

_One, two, three._

_ There are twenty-four hours in a day._

_ Four, five, six._

_ The body is sixty-percent water._

_ Seven, eight, nine._

_ I'm in New York City._

I sat there for several minutes, doing everything I could to ground myself, but it wasn't working. The panic was welling up in me – I was confined, trapped in my body. I heard noise all around me, engulfing me, and I felt the memories behind my eyelids flashing like a Polaroid camera every time I blinked. The weight settled deeper in my chest, sucking the oxygen from my lungs, and I knew it was coming. I'd never had two panic attacks in the same day before.

It was all too much. There were too many memories, too much noise, too many people, and I needed to get away. Going down to the streets obviously wasn't an option, so I decided to go up. I quietly slipped back into the apartment and out the front door, walking down a hallway until I found stairs. I repeated this until I climbed my last set of stairs up to the roof, and when I opened the door, I let out a sigh.

There was nobody around. I was standing on a rooftop, so high in the air, and it was quiet and empty and I could finally breathe. I walked and walked until the weight in my chest disappeared, letting my fingers catch the rough stone of the edge of the building. I noticed that the ledge was probably two feet wide, definitely wide enough for me to sit on. Without thinking about it, I climbed onto it and swung my feet over the side. I settled in, staring at all of the dots on the street below.

I wondered how long it would take me to reach the bottom, and if that would hurt more than what Sebastian had done to me.

* * *

**Blaine**

When I heard the front door creak, I shot up in my bed.

"What's wrong?" Rachel started, but I was out of the bedroom before I could answer her.

I threw the door open and went to my right, which either took you upstairs or down to the ground. I thought I heard noise on the stairs, so I followed my instinct and dashed up them. Once I was halfway down the hallway, I realized where Kurt was going – the only logical place he could possibly be going if he was up here: the roof.

"Shit," I cursed, speeding up the rest of the stairs until I got to the door that I was looking for. I pushed it open quietly, holding my breath. I saw him.

"What do you think it's like to drown?" he asked calmly over his shoulder. He must've heard me. "Do you think it's like floating?"

It took a second, but my mind flashed back to the last time he'd said that to me.

_"What do you think it feels like to drown? I don't think it feels like sticking your head underwater. It's more that everything inside you can't get out. It's just swimming inside you, filling you up until you have no more room left."_

Terror welled up in me and I forced my feet move cautiously towards him.

"Kurt? I need you to get down," I told him, my voice wavering, eyes focused on his back.

"I keep wondering why he accepted the plea bargain," he continued loudly, over the wind. "It doesn't make sense why he did. He raped me for three years, but he wouldn't have been charged with doing it. That's how it always works, isn't it?" I felt sick, like the contents of my stomach were churning into mush. "He only put me in a hospital once, but it should've been at least half a dozen. He never let me go, saying that people would ask too many questions. He was right. They did ask too many questions."

"Kurt. Kurt, please look at me." He turned his head, but his eyes were empty. I wondered how long he'd been out there. "Please, _please_ get down."

"It's so quiet up here," he said, ignoring me, and I felt tears of frustration behind my eyes.

"Dammit, Kurt –"

"It's like nothing ever happens up here, where the world ends and begins. I could live up here forever. It's so peaceful. Like you're floating."

"Kurt," I warned, taking a few more steps to him. I was almost close enough to grab his shirt.

"I have to get out of here," he stated suddenly, frowning.

"Okay, we'll get you out, just please, _please_ get down, Kurt," I begged. I felt dread tickle at the back of my neck.

"No, not out of _here_," he said, annoyed. "Out of _here_." He waved his arms around, swaying on the ledge. "Out of New York. Away from Sebastian. From the memories."

"You wanna leave the city?" I questioned, ignoring the way my stomach dropped into my heart for so many reasons. I wanted to distract him.

"I have to. I can't do it anymore, Blaine. I'm so tired. I can't fight anymore." He looked down at the streets, and for a single fraction of a second, my entire body tensed because I knew he was going to jump. When he glanced at me, everything in me stopped. "They're all so tiny. They probably can't even see me all the way up here. I wish I could be that small sometimes. Maybe things wouldn't hurt as much."

"You're safe, Kurt," I tried. "You're safe with me. Please come down."

"He used to tell me that no one would ever love me like he did. Is that true, Blaine? Will anyone ever love me again?"

I felt tears slide out of the corners of my eyes and swallowed back the tightness in my throat. A small voice deep inside me answered his question.

"But he didn't really love me, did he? He hurt me. He used me. So why did I love him?" I heard his voice catch on the last word, but he kept talking. "Why did I let him hurt me? I could've left. I probably could've stopped him, if I tried. But I didn't. Why?" He turned to me again, but this time his cheeks were streaked wet. "Why, Blaine?" he pushed out through his teeth. "Why did it have to be me? God, I don't understand how – how I could love such a monster." His fingers tangled in his hair and I watched as his chest heaved with the tears building up inside it. "He ruined me. I hate him. And I hate myself."

"Kurt. Kurt. I _need_ you to come down. Please. Can you do that for me? I want to give you a hug," I baited, "but I can't do that if you're up there."

"That's the thing though," he continued, his voice equally disgusted and amazed. He shook his head. "I don't hate him. Not all of him. Is that wrong? There are still some good parts of him, right? I mean, I fell in love with him for a reason, and those reasons are still in there somewhere. They have to be. I couldn't have been that blind. He wasn't born evil."

My heart was hammering in my chest. _What do I do?_ I thought, hysterical. _What the fuck do I do? _If I left him where he was, I didn't know what he was going to do. I didn't know what he was capable of doing to himself in that moment. But if I tried to grab him, he might fight me or lose his balance, and –

"If there was a drug that erased all your memories," he started suddenly, "would you take it? If it took away all your pain, would you give everything else up? I would."

"At – at some point I probably would have said yes," I replied, desperate to keep him talking. "But not anymore."

"It's a lot like jumping." I looked at him in horror and felt my throat close up. "You're so terrified to do it – more scared of anything than you've ever been in your whole life, but you know that the second after, it's all over. You won't feel or remember or exist, so there's nothing to be scared of. And that drug, it's the same thing. If I took a drug that erased all of my memories, I wouldn't be me anymore. He changed me, so if I erased him, then I would be a different person. I wouldn't want to take it, not at first, because that means that my entire life, everything I've worked for and past and to, would mean nothing. It would all cease to exist the moment I took the drug. And there are some things worth remembering, some good memories to fight for. Some, but not many. So maybe it's not so bad, you know? Because I'll never know. This version of me wouldn't live to see the aftermath."

He was spiraling. He was wrapped up in his head so tight that I knew I would never get him to come down. I didn't know where he was going and I couldn't find out, so I slowly closed the gap between me and the ledge, made a decision. I quickly shoved my arms out, gripped the fabric of his shirt in one hand and wrapped the other one around his waist, holding tightly. I pulled him back to me, off the ledge, away from danger. We tumbled to the ground, and he let out a noise. I breathed heavily, heart thumping wildly, and I grasped him to my chest and sat back against the wall.

And then he was crying. Sobbing, like the tears would never stop. His body was shaking and he let his forehead fall to my shoulder as he choked on his breaths.

"Shh," I whispered fiercely, close to his ear. "Shh. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you. You're okay, Kurt. You're okay."

"I – I can't, oh my god, I have to call my dad, Blaine, I need my dad," he cried in between his gasps.

"We'll call him," I promised, wrapping my arms around him tighter. "We'll call him."

I didn't know what else to do for him.

* * *

**Kurt**

I wasn't gonna jump. Honestly, I don't think I would have. I just needed space and I needed to feel like there was more to the world than what I was seeing, what I was remembering. I hadn't had a world in so long, not since things had gotten bad with Sebastian.

I didn't want to die, exactly. I just wanted to stop existing. I wanted to blink out of the world, quick and easy. I didn't want to hurt anybody, I just wanted to disappear. But I knew that I couldn't do it anymore. I had to get out of New York and away from all of it. That couldn't be all I had in my life – that overwhelming, engulfing sadness and fear and shame. I had to find something else. I needed to get better.

* * *

**Kurt**

I had my last checkup on May 25th.

The doctor told me that my ribs were healed up, despite any few lingering pains I felt in them when I ran or moved a certain way. That was only something that would go away with time, but for all intents and purposes, I was in the clear. I was off of the medications that I'd been taking (I was only on one at the time, since the antibiotics were only to prevent pneumonia in the days after I was home) and my lung was also healing well. He said my weight was still down, and before he could start formulating a reason, I jumped in.

"Yeah… I haven't been feeling too well over the last week or so, so I haven't been eating much. I've pretty much just been sleeping a lot."

I wasn't sure if he believed me or not, but he just told me to make sure I started eating more before my weight became a cause for concern.

Other than that, everything else was okay. My bruises were gone, my stitches were out, and I was free to leave. My body was shockingly resilient for someone whose mind couldn't even begin to start mending itself. I guess it was kind of ironic, but I wasn't surprised. I just listened to the doctor, said what I needed to say, and shoved the shame deep inside me.

I was getting out. That's all that mattered.

* * *

**May 26****th****, 2019 – Blaine's Journal**

_Kurt's gone now. Just as quickly as he'd come back to my life, he'd left. And I understand it. I know why he had to leave, and I don't blame him for it. But I'm terrified of letting him go, because I don't know what he'll do. I don't know who we'll be when he comes back. I feel like I'm sending him off to war, and I don't know what his chance for survival is. When he mentioned that he needed to get out of the city, I wasn't sure how much he meant that. And then the next day, he told me that he was going back to Ohio after his last checkup. It really shouldn't have hurt as much as it did, and you'd think goodbye would be easier when you know where the other person is going, but it isn't. Goodbye with Kurt will never be easy._

_Burt called earlier to tell me that he landed okay and that they're back home now. He said that if Kurt doesn't call on his own that he and Carole will still give me updates, but I know Kurt's gonna want some space for a while. Is it wrong to be jealous? That's absurd. It's sick, really. I'm jealous of a parent who hasn't seen their kid in seven years. What's wrong with me? God, I don't know. I just. I have this __thing__ inside of me. I won't admit to it. I can't. Not out loud. I haven't even talked to Rachel about it, because I don't even know what __it__ is yet. Thinking about it gives me butterflies, but those butterflies are in the pit of my stomach._

_Fine. I have a crush on Kurt. Okay? Just a crush. Right?_

_I mean. Fuck, I don't even know. I really don't. Can you have a crush on someone you used to be in love with? Is that even possible?_

_All I know is that I'm sad that he left. I just want to hold him close and take away any bad thing he feels and I want to give him the happiness he deserves, and I don't think that's something I'd want to do for just a friend. But that's all he can ever be to me now, and I have to live with that. I don't even know when he'll call me or if he's coming back to New York. Clearly, I don't know anything._

_I'll just have to focus on other things. Like music. I have meetings with my team coming up so I'll just focus on that. Keep busy, right?_

* * *

**May 27****th****, 2019 – Kurt's Journal**

_It's easier to breathe now. It's still hard, but it's better._

_I just couldn't do New York. The people, the pace, the crowded streets – any of it. It was suffocating, but I still felt alone. As the days and weeks crept on, my stitches were healing but I wasn't. The remnants of what Sebastian had done to me still lingered, always following me around and reminding me of their presence. It was more than just the scars on my wrists that had once dripped so endlessly; than the hollowness of my stomach and the skin stretched tight over my bones; than the pills and checkups and the cracks he left in my ribs. He'd taken away so many things from me that I didn't know how to live in a world by myself. Was it that I didn't know how to live without him, or that I didn't know who to __be__ without him?_

_After the rooftop incident with Blaine later that same night, I called my dad and Carole and told them I couldn't stay there anymore. It was only five in the morning, but they answered in a heartbeat. I said that I needed to get out, and when they asked if I wanted to come home, I said yes. They bought me a one-way ticket to Lima. I cried and told my dad that I was sorry for not talking to him in New York, but I just hadn't been ready. I promised him that we could sit down and talk about everything as long as he got me out of there. I didn't tell him the reason I realized I needed to come home, though. I couldn't. That would have to come later._

_I just needed a place without memories lying on every corner and street I passed. I needed somewhere without five years of abuse following me around and infecting anything new I tried to touch. I needed to heal away from all of it. I needed time and space to figure out who I was without Sebastian. I needed a therapist that wasn't Blaine's because I knew that I couldn't live in fear anymore – of people, of him, of food or blades or anything else. I wanted to be free of it. Of Sebastian._

_So I came back home._

* * *

**A/N: What do you think about this chapter? (Which, obviously, took a fucking long time to write.) As usual, let me know!**


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